


Night Gathers

by tellthemstories



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Grantaire is a man of the Night's Watch, Lannisterjolras, M/M, Politics, Violence, also an unnamed bastard, and the parts are individually short, warning: this is long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 42,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellthemstories/pseuds/tellthemstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?</i>
</p><p>His arrival at the wall comes without fanfare, without proclamation. But then that’s rather fitting, for the disgraced son of a Lannister, thrown out on cruel words. Or rather, sent to the wall on a doomed mission, a lion with his claws clipped, punished for daring to suggest anything but his father’s way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enjolras

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from Tumblr. New parts will always be posted there first before being copied across. If you want to see what happens next, fanart or questions/answers, click [here](http://tell-themstories.tumblr.com/tagged/game-of-thrones-au/chrono)!
> 
> Vague spoilers for the series - nothing too obvious, but possibly referenced in passing. Nothing beyond book three or tv series four. A knowledge of both is not necessary to read and follow what happens herein. 
> 
> Otherwise, sorry for the gratuitous liberties taken with the Game of Thrones mythology, world and characters.

_And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?_

His arrival at the wall comes without fanfare, without proclamation. But then that's rather fitting, for the disgraced son of a Lannister, thrown out on cruel words. Or rather, sent to the wall on a doomed mission, a lion with his claws clipped, punished for daring to suggest anything but his father's way.

"You think you know best?" his father had asked, "You think you can rule the realm better than I?" __

And Enjolras had looked at the medallion pinned to his chest, the hand that symbolised so much, and thought about a bastard king on the throne who had no right to be there, but who was backed by the greatest family in the realm, and so who could complain?

"I think the people are smarter than you give them credit for," he had replied, stubbornness making him bold, "And I don't think they will settle for this much longer. The Starks --"

"The Starks have been removed. Justice, loyalty, honour, it all disappears in the face of good coin."

"But there are still some who follow," Enjolras argued. In his mind's eye he stands strong against his father's disapproval, unmoving, in reality he wonders if he did not just look like a petulant teen. "Some who would seek to be the next King in the North. The Brotherhood without Banners still evades you.The Tyrells can't be trusted."

"And you think we should make peace with them? These families who would easily do to us what we have done to them?" his father asked, the proud line of his back belying his contempt. 

"Whose fault is that?" Enjolras demanded, "We're busy fighting all of these stupid wars, stabbing each other in the back whilst the realm suffers. Word came from Castle Black again, the wildlings--"

"I do not care about the wildlings!"

"But you should!" Enjolras had yelled back, slamming his hands down on the desk, "If they cross the wall who knows what will come with them? There are reports of other things -- you think the dead care who sits on a throne made of melted swords?"

"I think you overstep yourself," his father had replied, curt, "I have had enough of this nonsense, Enjolras. You will do as I say or you will see yourself disowned. Take up the black yourself, if you think they are so important to our survival."

"Fine," Enjolras had hissed through clenched teeth, "But when the realm comes crashing down around your ears, remember that I warned you of this."

It was the one time he had ever seen his father caught out, the one time he had ever seen genuine shock in his eyes. It had gone in an instant, that flash of vulnerability, replaced by the cold disdain he was known for.

He hadn't stopped Enjolras when he had stormed out. 

Enjolras's outburst hadn't had the far-ranging and disastrous consequences he had expected. He hadn't woken to a knife pressed to his throat or a sudden marriage proposal to tie him to the capital. Instead his father had gone suddenly, intensely silent on the matter, until a meeting of the small council revealed he was sending his second son to the wall, still under Lannister colours, still with his name, but without any of the kingdom's support. 

It was a banishment, he knew, a reprimand. His father was punishing him under the guise of giving him exactly what he wanted. Because he wasn't being sent to the wall as an equal, a brother, someone who could genuinely help the men of Night's Watch, who they might actually listen to. 

He was being sent as a Lannister, and he knew very well what the Northerners thought of his name, what ideas they would already have of him, when he turned up with an order from the King to say he was to be the new Lord Commander. 

He thinks of it all, remembers every part of his departure from King's Landing as he sits astride his horse at the entrance to Castle Black. The place is deserted, no one awaits his arrival. 

Snow falls from all directions, caught and blown across the yard by the wind. The wall towers above him, impossible, daunting, seen only once before when he was a boy, on a trip with his mother to see the far reaches of the land. It would be easy to see the place as soft around the edges, blanketed as it is in a white layer of snow, but Enjolras knows better, sees the crumbling foundations, the black walls, the sharp edges. 

He takes a breath and guides his horse further into the compound, dismounts when he reaches the stables. In the cold northern air her breath clouds, she stamps her hooves and makes a displeased noise. 

"I know," he murmurs, running a hand down her flank, "It's cold."

It's an understatement, but then, Patria had been brought up in the warmth of the southern states, learnt to run across the expansive grounds at Casterly Rock. Ordinarily she would be seen to by the best groomsmen of the country, kept warm in the best stables, though Enjolras had always snuck in when he could, spent time learning how to take care of her. 

If the common folk could do it, if they spent their lives working, then so could he. It was a way to get to know them, to understand how they thought. 

But still it rankles, that no one is here to greet him, not even a page. He grits his teeth against the insult and takes Patria into the stables, finds an empty stall for her and settles her down, away from the cold. 

When he emerges there's a boy stood in the stables watching him, dressed all in black, with a dagger clasped tight in his hand. Enjolras looks him over then strides forwards, extends a hand. "Greetings, I am--"

"I know who you are," the kid says, looking down at his hand then back up, not relinquishing the dagger, "You're that Lannister guy. Been sent to collect you by the Lord Commander."

Enjolras opens his mouth, immediately ready to contest the idea that someone else is Lord Commander, then presses his lips together, firm. They do not yet know, they haven't had time to read the royal appointment he has in his pocket.

So he nods once, and follows the impossible boy back through the courtyard, keeps one eye on the dagger as he twirls it around, throw and catch, the metal glinting in the moonlight. 

He expects to be taken to the shieldhall, a place he has read about often, in the tomes kept in the great library, but is lead instead to the common hall, where the smallfolk dine. Another insult no doubt, one he is going to call the boy on, until he throws the doors wide and warmth seeps through his skin. 

The common hall is full, both with the men of the night's watch and their staff, everyone eating together, like class and rank don't matter. Enjolras halts on the threshold, unprepared for such a blatant disregard for the proper order. It is as he had always wanted in the south, but actually seeing it in practice stuns him, sets him back a step.

The boy disappears inside, slips between tables like a shadow, till he reaches a man sat with all the others, indistinguishable amongst the rows of black, though his grizzled beard puts him years above most. The boy leans down to speak to him, murmurs something close to his ear, and then the man nods, looks up and across at where Enjolras still stands. 

Their eyes meet, and the man downs what is left in his tankard, drains the dregs before setting it on the table again. He still does not rise to greet him, just jerks his head to the side. Enjolras gets the message:  _come here._

As he walks through the hall between the tables, he feels men stop and turn to look at him. At the bright shine to his armour, newly bought from the armoury before coming here, at the longsword with the red hilt and a lion's head crest, at the way he has let his hair grow long, like a woman's, tied it back with a simple band. 

The man doesn't stand up until he has reached him, makes a subtle show of getting to his feet without grace but a blunt brutality. In contrast his armour is old, the sheen has faded. His black cloak is worn thin with age. He has the look of Enjolras's father when their eyes meet, that ability to see straight through him, to assess him and find him wanting. 

His hackles rise at the look, the proud stubbornness he has always been known for. These men should be showing him respect, as their new Lord Commander. He will teach them proper courtesy if he is to help prepare them for what is to come, if he is to protect the realm from what lies beyond. 

"I am Ser Enjolras Lannister," he introduces himself, "I come at the behest of the King. I am--"

"Aye," says a man still sat at the table, "We know who you are."

Enjolras falters, and then frowns. "And is this how you usually greet your Lord Commander?"

The man at the table snorts, says, "There's only one Lord Commander I recognise, and you ain't him."

Enjolras rankles, and the grizzled man says, "Peace, Bahorel. Ser Enjolras is new to the Night's Watch. He is not aware of our customs."

"So send him back," says the man sat next to Bahorel, "Before he gets frostbite and freezes his dainty little digits off."

"Enough." The grizzled man's voice carries, subdues the muted buzz of conversation that had started with Enjolras's words. As one everyone turns to look at him, respects him instantly. It's the same reaction Enjolras has seen his father get, many a time, but this man wears no sigil, no house colours to proclaim his loyalty. 

"I am Lamarque, the current Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," he introduces himself. "Until my men see fit for it to be otherwise."

Enjolras feels like an idiot, like he's made some huge misstep without realising. He's heard of Lamarque before, of course, who hasn't; anyone who picks up a copy of the most recent history of the Night's Watch sees his name there. 

But he had also heard that the Lord Commander was old, that he was aging. That his control of the Night's Watch wasn't as good as it had been, that he had let everything fall recently into rack and ruin. Whilst it's true Castle Black is not what it once was, that there are cracks in the foundations which wind whistles through, Enjolras can see that it doesn't matter. That this man holds the loyalty of his men, and knows that in this world, that means far more than any stone walls. 

This whole place, the Night's Watch, it is nothing like the things he has read. The men are not the degenerates he was told about, in stories whispered by maids and ladies alike. There is not chaos and a total lack of order. Things are different to how they would be at King's Landing but -- not wrong. 

He starts to wonder if there are other things he does not know, other things he has studied and been lied to about. He wants to help the realm, has always wanted what is best for the people, but standing here in the middle of the Night's Watch, he is starting to wonder if the people want  _him._  

He looks at Lamarque, meets his eyes and draws himself up to his full height, back straight. Whilst he is known for being proud - what Lannister isn't? - Enjolras also knows when to step back, when he has made a mistake. 

"My apologies, Lord Commander," he says, extending a hand. "My mistake. I had heard rumours - unfounded, it turns out. I am here to offer my services, however you see fit."

Lamarque looks down at his hand, then back up to his eyes. Enjolras has the curious sensation he's being measured. Against what standards, he doesn't know. He has always failed his father's high ones, has never quite fit into the great families' views of what he should be. He does not know what Lamarque looks for, here in the far reaches of the north, where they are isolated from all others, relying only on a man's worth to survive. 

He thinks about what would happen if he was denied, knows that his is what his father wants, for him to return from the wall with his tail between his legs. For the proud son to be cowed. 

Then Lamarque takes his hand, grips it tight and says, "Welcome to the Night's Watch, Ser Enjolras."


	2. Grantaire

__ Grantaire is North of the Wall when word reaches him, pulling his sword from the body of a dead wildling. The crow caws and lands on a bare tree branch, cocks its head and blinks down at him as Grantaire drips blood as thick and dark as rubies across the snow. 

He kicks the wildling body over where it slumps, already starting to freeze, leaves it staring up at the clouded sky as he drags his cloak over the sword to clean it. 

The crow hops down from the tree when he sheaths his sword, lands with a scrape of claws on his knuckles, fluttering its wings in brief recognition before letting him unfasten the message. Jehan's perfectly curled script tells him that the wall has a new visitor, a noble from the South. It's a simple enough message, straight and to the point. But Grantaire knows how to read between the lines with Jehan, to see what the message really is about rather than what the words say. 

And Jehan is worried, doesn't know what to make of this new arrival, is unsure of what it might mean. 

It is what the message doesn't say that makes him turn and head for home, to return to the Wall before his ranging mission is finished. There are no real time limits given to a ranging party - even less to him, when he goes out alone - but there is an expectation of how long they will be gone. Grantaire has been North of the Wall alone for three months now, had intended on six. 

He rides the week back alone in silence, Jehan's crow scouting on ahead for company. The cold wind bites at his skin, worms its way beneath the worn material and patched joints of his clothes, making his scars ache and pull tight. 

Lamarque has always accused him of being more than a little bit in love with death. 

He arrives back at the Wall in the dead of night, though with the seasons rapidly changing, daylight is already becoming sparse and darkness outlasts the sunlight. His arrival should be greeted by a single horn blast, but it's been years since they tried; the other men of the Night's Watch know better now. He comes and goes as he pleases, for better or worse. 

He makes his way through the tunnel under the Wall alone, unlocks the iron gates and reseals them behind him. The last gate brings him back into civilisation - or what passes for it, in these parts - and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, despite it all. 

He sees his horse into the stables, settled down for the night with fresh hay and water, though he still glares balefully back at him, clearly wanting to be back on the other side of the Wall. Honour is an old warhorse, grumpy and stout. He tries to bite anyone who gets close, loves nothing more than kicking people to the ground with a derisive snort.

They're the perfect partners, Bahorel had once said, bloody stubborn and bad-tempered.

There's another horse in the stables, one Grantaire doesn't recognise. He doesn't need to look twice to know it's of good stock; the mane is golden, the body like velvet. It is proud and well-trained, just watches him coolly as he stomps his way through the stables. 

It doesn't make Grantaire feel any better, about the lord who has come to visit. 

Gavroche finds him in the courtyard, appearing out of the darkness like a shadow. Each passing year only makes him more wild, more uncontrollable. Grantaire is quite certain he's been beyond the Wall by himself, more than once. He lives by his own rules, respects no authority but Lamarque, and even then manages to twist everything to his own advantage. Theirs is a strange friendship. 

Grantaire falls into step with him as they head towards the keep, to the common hall where everyone will be trying to stave off the boredom with alcohol and conversation. He peels his riding gloves off, shoves them into his pockets and flexes the joints, massaging warmth back into his skin. 

"So do you want to know who it is?" Gavroche asks, overly eager. It must be someone very important. 

"Not particularly."

"You came back though, didn't you?" he points out, too clever for his own good. "It's a Lannister."

Grantaire falters for a second at that, a halt in his step before he continues his stride as if nothing happened. "Which one?"

A Lannister at the wall means no good for anyone, not least a bastard of questionable blood like Grantaire. It occurs to him that he should have probably stayed North of the Wall, but it's too late for that now. 

"One of the sons," Gavroche replies, "The pretty one. I thought he was a girl at first."

"Lannisters are always pretty," Grantaire says, "Pretty and ruthless."

He doesn't feel any better about the situation, not even when he finally steps through the doors into the common hall. It's the one place in Westeros that has ever felt like home to him, the one place where he has been welcomed. The warmth seeps through to his bones like syrup, the conversation wraps him up in a cocoon.

Lamarque sits at the main table for once, away from the men. Next to him sits the Lannister lord, lit by the flickering flames of wall sconce, a warm golden glow. His hair is long, curling around his face, tied back by a simple band. His cloak is black, like the Night's Watch demands, but the armour beneath it is red, the colour of blood, shined to perfection. A collar of stark white fur frames his face, softens the sharp edges, the high cheekbones, the proud set of his jaw. His lips curve with displeasure and Grantaire knows, instantly, that he would sit at those feet, would do whatever was asked of him, would let himself be torn to shreds by that disdain then roll over and beg for more.

The Lannister looks up and for a second, their eyes meet.

Then Grantaire is pulled, bodily, into a broad chest. His hands come up to steady himself, meeting the solid expanse of Bahorel's shoulders. 

"About time you got back," Bahorel says, dragging him over to a table and shoving him down onto the bench. "We were starting to think Mance had made an example of you."

"Not yet," Grantaire replies, ducking out from under his arm and reaching for one of the tankards, "But some of his friends came close at the Frostfangs."

"You shouldn't go out there alone," Jehan says, looking worried, and Grantaire can practically _feel_ the concern radiating off him. He twists a loose strand of cotton from his sleeve around his fingers, nervous. "It's not safe, not any more."

"Would you stop talking about those damn things?" Bahorel demands, scowling. "Gives me the willies."

"So they should," Jehan replies, "They're a fate worse than death."

Grantaire hides his smile behind his tankard as he takes a long drink. Bahorel is apprenticed to the Master-at-Arms, whilst Jehan is just a steward, but you wouldn't think it, in the way they act around each other. There's always been something off-setting about Jehan, something different, wise, older. As if he knows far more than he should - or many would ever want to.

"So who's the Lannister?" Grantaire asks, cutting to the point.

Jehan blinks and looks across at the main table, then glances back again. "A prick," Bahorel says, before he can get words out. "A southern tosser who thinks he owns everything, what else?"

"He came with an order from the King," Jehan elaborates, "To make him Lord Commander."

Grantaire chokes on his next drink of beer, coughs and hits his chest with a closed first. "You're fucking with me." 

"Seems the Lannisters think they can buy the North too," Bahorel says, "Get that little shit of a King of theirs to sign a piece of parchment and think it gives them the right to take over."

Grantaire shakes his head and looks back to the main table, where the Lannister is talking to Lamarque about something that makes his cheeks flush as they debate. Anger makes him throw his head back like a lion, regal and fierce. He doesn't defer to Lamarque the way the rest of them do, he takes him on like an equal, challenging his place. 

"His name is Enjolras," Jehan supplies, the  _and if he finds out who you are, his father will kill you_ , is silent.

Grantaire fills up his tankard again, and wonders if maybe he should have stayed beyond the Wall, where a man is safe, so long as he can wield a sword and hunt game, and no one cares what family you are from. 


	3. Jehan

"How many are there?" Lamarque asks.

Jehan sits in the alcove of the windowsill, his willowy limbs pulled in to his chest. Perched as he is and clothed all in black, he looks like one of the crows he sends out for the Maester.  

In contrast, Enjolras prowls the room like a caged lion, like he wants to do nothing more than to tear it all down. 

Grantaire stands before the table of the senior men of the Night's Watch, back straight. The Valyrian steel sword hangs at his hip, catching and glinting in the moonlight when he moves. His hand occasionally wraps around the hilt, a nervous gesture hidden by the folds of his cloak.

"Thousands, spread across the Frostfangs in clans," he reports, "Mance is bringing them together. I met an envoy on the pass."

The Master-at-Arms snorts, says, "No chance. There's no way he can unite them all. The only thing that can unite the clans is their hatred of each other."

"You sent this man out," Javert, the commander of Eastwatch says, looking across at where the First Ranger sits at the far end of the table, "Or rather, you let him wander alone, then expect us to believe the wild tales he returns with? No one else has seen wind of any of these things."

"That's why Grantaire goes out alone," Feuilly replies calmly, not rising to the bait, "He finds things others do not."

"Like dreams and fantasies and old maid's tales," Javert dismisses, looking away from him and over to where Lamarque sits, dead centre. "You cannot bring me all the way from my post and expect me to believe all of this, not without proof. Your fondness for the boy is ridiculous--"

Jehan's gaze snaps automatically to where Enjolras stands at the back, watching the conversation play out. But rather than looking at Javert and considering his words, wondering why the Lord Commander might possibly favour Grantaire, he is instead looking at Feuilly thoughtfully. 

Lamarque and Javert continue their conversation, hushed tones, words that make Grantaire grit his teeth, his stance turning from a respectful posture to barely-withheld anger. 

"Do you often send men out alone?" Enjolras asks.

His words cut straight through the conversation. They are meant for Feuilly, who nods once and replies, "I deploy my men where their talents best fit."

Enjolras nods, and there is a brief flicker of respect on his proud face. "As it should be."

"You think you know better than us, boy?" Javert demands, "You? A summer's child from King's Landing, coddled by your father from birth?"

"My father did not coddle me."

Enjolras's prowling has taken him closer to the table, puts him shoulder-to-shoulder with Grantaire, who looks sideways at him out of indigo-blue eyes, but says nothing. 

"I'm sure it was hard for you," Javert simpers, "With a father who shits gold and a feather mattress for your bed. Did your time at the training ground not teach you better?"

Jehan winces, twists the fabric of his cloak through his fingers. They had all heard of the incident of course - most of them had seen it in person. 

Bahorel knocking an untrained recruit to the ground, pointing a sword at his throat, Enjolras intervening with teeth bared. The way they had sparred off against each other, spitting words, until Enjolras had offered himself as a replacement. 

Real swords being drawn was an event; in training they were to use blunt ones only. But Bahorel was apprenticed to the Master-at-Arms, could do what he wanted, so long as he got results, and Enjolras - well, he was a Lannister. They had always done as they pleased. 

At first the fight had been slow, almost evenly-matched, each man testing out the other. Until Bahorel had thrown caution to the wind and used his bigger frame to knock Enjolras down to the dirt, to over power him with brute strength and underhanded tactics. 

The men had cheered, they had loved seeing the proud Lord brought so low -- but Bahorel hadn't. 

His gaze, instead, had been wary, and Enjolras, when he got to his feet, was not cowed. Instead he rubbed his arm over his face, smeared the blood from the cut across his temple, and fell into near-perfect stance again, sword drawn. 

But before they could start again the real Master-at-Arms had appeared, had barked at them all to get back to their stations, and the crowd had dispersed. Jehan had moved to turn away from the window in the Maester's room, but as he did, caught sight of Enjolras talking to Bahorel. 

"It certainly did," Enjolras tells Javert, "And no doubt will continue to, as I spend more time with the Master's apprentice." The Master-at-Arms grudgingly inclines his head at this, an acknowledgement. "You have many talented men under your watch, Lord Commander."

Grantaire laughs.

It's so sudden and unexpected that they all turn to look at him at once. Even Jehan had forgotten he was there - Enjolras had this quality, this ability to draw all attention to himself, an innate sense of self that radiated like the sun. Next to him Grantaire had disappeared into shadow. 

"Wow, you're good," Grantaire says, his lips twisted mockingly as he faces Enjolras finally, "Have you actually heard what you're saying? Oh,  _Lord Commander_." He flutters one hand in the air between them, Enjolras's eyes catch on it and he frowns. "We're not in King's Landing any more, Lannister. Your flowery rhetoric won't last long out here."

He turns back to the table of men, says, "If we're quite done here, I'll be going."

Jehan holds his breath, unsure of how they'll react. Grantaire has a way of saying things that sound like requests, but really fall flat into statements; no doubt he will walk out of the room in an instant, regardless of the answer. 

Lamarque nods, saying, "You are free to go, Grantaire. Thank you for your report. We will consider your findings."

"Consider?" Enjolras demands as Grantaire turns on his heel to leave, "What's the point of considering? If there's a threat to the realm beyond the wall surely you should do something about it? Send a ranging party, scouts, get a fixed number of how many there are."

Jehan jumps from the windowsill in a flutter of robes as Grantaire reaches the doorway. He's not officially supposed to be here, but as the Maester's steward, he has leeway with meetings of import: two sets of ears are always better than one, and the Maester is always expected to record every little thing that happens.

"You overstep yourself, Lannister," the Master-at-Arms growls, "It is not your place to order the Night's Watch."

"Perhaps Ser Enjolras would benefit from some time to think," the Maester suggests diplomatically. His cloudy eyes meet Jehan's across the room for a second. "Some time to consider the best course of action."

Lamarque murmurs his agreement. "I agree. Ser Enjolras." It is a dismissal. 

Enjolras sets his jaw, his whole body is tense. Then he turns as sharply as Grantaire had, crosses the room in three strides and disappears down the stairs. Jehan nods once at the Maester and then follows, taking the steps two at a time to try and keep up with the lion's long legs. 

He pushes the heavy door open to a blast of cold wind, steps out into the courtyard. A raven flies overheard as he glances around for a sign of which direction Enjolras went, and he hears the murmuring of voices.

He turns the corner of the stable to find Enjolras and Grantaire talking. Grantaire had obviously attempted to get as far away as possible, but Enjolras's longer legs caught up with him. The blond man stands with his hand wrapped around Grantaire's elbow still, as if to hold him back, even though Grantaire no longer offers resistance.

They make an odd pair, Jehan thinks, stopping to stand back in the shadows. The proud lion with his golden mane and sharp cheekbones, shining with passion and anger, and the sullen ranger, with his coal-black hair and wilful disinterest in everything, his thread-bare robes and scuffed shoes.

The wind picks up as Jehan watches, catches Enjolras's hair and whips it around his face as they talk. Snatches of conversation are stolen away, lost to the weather, but he doesn't need to hear the words to know what they're talking about. He sees Enjolras's lips form the word 'Mance', 'realm' and 'threat', a question, and Grantaire nods, once.

They don't recoil away from each other, these two opposites. They stand poised on the brink of something else, some understanding that shouldn't be possible. Their bodies are still taut with anger, but it's not anger that keeps them together, keeps Grantaire's eyes locked on Enjolras's as he speaks.

This won't end well, Jehan thinks, it can't. Not when the truth comes out.

And Enjolras  _will_  discover it, he has to, a man like that doesn't let secrets pass idly by.

What matters is what happens after, what the repercussions will be. Jehan had thought of anger, of murder and death and betrayal, but now, watching the two of them talk in muted voices, a hand clasped to an arm and not let go, he starts to think of a different ending. 

The wind howls, and it starts to snow.


	4. Enjolras

The wind whistles, a sound he feels through to his teeth. He always thought it would be quiet, seven hundred feet in the air, completely isolated from civilisation, but the wall makes its own noise. 

There are creaks as ice shifts, cracks spreading as whole sheets shatter and fall. Sometimes, he thinks he can feel the whole thing shudder, swaying like the chains on the winches and manacles. In the distance a lone crow caws; flames crackle in the lantern to his side. 

Footsteps on the ice.

Enjolras exhales slowly, then curls his fingers around the hilt of his sword. His cloak flutters behind him like wings, an extra shadow. 

"He’ll be back," Eponine says, stepping up beside him, out of the darkness. "Waiting won’t make him come any faster."

Enjolras releases his grip on the sword, glances at her out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not waiting for anyone.”

"Of course not," she replies, "Just taking extra patrols for the fun of it, freezing your balls off and watching the forest for any sign of movement."

He turns away from her insinuations, walks over to check on the lantern. They’re running low on timber; soon someone is going to have to go north, to enter the forest for dry wood for the fires. They could go south, but the wood never seems to last up here, rots and disintegrates within days.

He snaps kindling on fragments of ice as Eponine says, “He’ll come back when he comes back.”

Enjolras feeds the wood into the fire, watches the flames catch and spread, curling and breeding warmth. He thinks about how rare it is, these days, for ranging parties to go beyond the wall. How rarer it is for them to all come back together, unscathed or untouched by what they have seen. 

Grantaire had gone out alone, just taken Honour out from the stables one day and gone, without warning. 

When Enjolras had told Lamarque, when he’d stormed the steps up to his room and thrown the door open with perhaps more force than was necessary, Lamarque had just shrugged. Shrugged, like it happened all the time, like it didn’t matter, like it was fine to send one of his rangers out into the wilderness with no one to make sure he came back. 

"This isn’t your watch," Enjolras says, finally turning to glance over his shoulder at where Eponine stands at the edge of the wall. 

"Nor is it yours, Lannister," she points out coolly. "You have not taken the oaths, you are not one of us."

Enjolras knows how to choose his words, can be deliberately cruel when he wants to be. He unleashes them now, pointed, is rewarded with a flinch when he says, “Do you mean a Brother of the Night’s Watch, or a Brother at all?”

They have been dancing around this ever since they first met, crossing paths in the courtyard, Eponine’s hair cut rough around her face, her chest bound under her clothes. Gavroche he hadn’t recognised but Eponine - he had known her once. Before the shame of her family had stuck forever to her, and all Seven Kingdoms believed her dead. 

How could you possibly stay living, with your family so utterly disgraced?

It all began with Fantine Dayne, and her haunting violet eyes. 

Fantine had died at Starfall, and her daughter, Euphrasie, had been taken by the Thenadiers. They were sworn liege lords to the Tyrells, and close to the Black Rose himself. Only Euphrasie was never treated like the little lady she was, was maltreated and malnourished before Valjean Stark had rode in like a white knight. 

Noble, just, righteous, he had threatened to behead Eponine’s parents on the spot, but loyalty and honour held him back, and they had escaped with their lives — but not much else. Eponine and Gavroche had had disappeared shortly after. Azelma, already betrothed to a Redwyne, had clung to her new name in escape.

Euphrasie had become Cosette then, a Stark in all but name, and her presence at the Keep the previous year had caused a stir Enjolras still remembers now. There had been a sudden ripple through the lords and ladies, a collective sigh when they’d seen her long blonde hair and her mother’s violet eyes.

Only wrapped in the dark cloak and heavy furs of the north, a direwolf sat patiently at her side. Seeing her, many people had reaffirmed their beliefs that Valjean was her father after all, that by making her his ward he had done what he hadn’t been able to when her mother was alive, claiming her as his own. 

But Enjolras, he had wondered.

"We all have our secrets," Eponine replies, "And families who think they know what is best." 

"You could have gone to the Tyrells," Enjolras points out, "They distanced themselves from your parents immediately."

Eponine’s laugh is bitter. “Of course they did.” She shakes her head and huffs under her breath, moves finally to stand next to him. Her movements are not feminine at all, she has perfected the mannerisms of a man, stands with one hip slightly jutted, her shoulders set, jaw tilted just so to make it seem stronger, broader. 

"Roses are perfect and beautiful and innocent, aren’t they?" she asks, "They couldn’t possibly have been involved."

"What about Montparnasse?"

"The Black Rose is the perfect construct, don’t you get it? They act like they want nothing to do with him, but they don’t disown him. He takes the blame for anything shady they do, any misdemeanour that might tarnish their name."

"But every rose has its thorns," Enjolras echoes his father’s words, and has the rare experience of seeing Eponine almost smile. "And now you’re here."

"And now I’m here."

The Wall is good for her, there’s no past history or reputation holding her back. All that matters is what she can do, what she is capable of. And here, she has a place, she has responsibilities, she is respected. 

"We all have our own stories," she says, "No man at the Wall comes here alone."

Enjolras looks out across the wall again, beyond to where the darkness creeps ever closer and the cold winds blow. To where snow always falls and a King Beyond the Wall prepares an army. To where Grantaire had disappeared, almost a week ago, without word. 

"What’s his?" he asks. 

"You’ll have to ask him that yourself, when he comes back."

She steps away from the wall finally, turns to leave. When she reaches the edge of the guard post, she turns back, looks over her shoulder at him. “But what answer he gives you, remains to be seen.”

Her figure disappears into the darkness, as silent as a shadow, identical to her brother. Enjolras is left to the cold, to the sound of creaking ice, and the howling of the wind. He adds more kindling to the fire, wraps his cloak around his body, and waits. 


	5. Combeferre [interlude i]

Why are brothels always red? Combeferre wonders. So much silk, so much velvet, so much incense. Do people really never want anything else?

He follows the owner at a brisk pace, is unwilling to be distracted by talk of services, or any of the, admittedly alluring, people who peer out of dark corners and smile seductively at him. The owner looks confused, isn't sure what to do with a man who isn't here for pleasure, trips over his words when Combeferre gives him a stony stare in response to a proposition.

He is led through to the rooms at the back, the most expensive, the place where the best whores reside and only those with real money can venture. He hears the moans before anything else, the breathy gasps, an occasional giggle.

__

The owner looks at him again, as if wondering whether to stop him from going further - but Combeferre doesn't give him chance, just brushes straight past, dismissing him entirely as he pushes the lace curtains out of the way to step into the room.

His target notes his entrance without even looking up.

"Combeferre," Courfeyrac drawls. He lies draped over what looks like a velvet bed, wearing nothing from the waist up. Three whores are arranged around him in similar states of undress, he curls a lock of one's dark hair around his finger as he watches her kiss another. "Has anyone ever told you that you have shit timing?"

Combeferre doesn't rise to it, replies blandly, "Rarely, my lord. They usually find that the reason for my interruption is worthwhile." 

"How fortunate for you." 

He watches as Courfeyrac reluctantly tears his attention away from the whores to look over at where Combeferre stands, straight-backed and proper by the door. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your appearance?" His lips curve, his gaze is heady. "Could it be that you have finally come to join us?"

One of the whores kisses their way down his chest as he speaks, goes entirely unnoticed by either man. Combeferre focuses his attention solely on Courfeyrac, acts as if the whores aren't there at all as he says, "A raven arrived this morning, from the North."

The shift in Courfeyrac's attention is immediate, though Combeferre is aware it's only through years of friendship that he can see the little signs. The way the casual ease seeps from his muscles, how his expression sharpens. To others, it would seem as if he was entirely unmoved by the information. 

"Oh my," Courfeyrac replies; he is notorious for caring little for the politics that drive all others. He turns his attention back to the whores, watches them for a few more moments. "Some people just don't understand having fun, do they?"

One of the whores looks up from where he had been unlacing Courfeyrac's trousers with his teeth, grins without letting go.

"Well, I can't possibly keep the North waiting now, can I?" Courfeyrac asks, jovial, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes as he squeezes the side of one of the girls draped over him. "What with winter coming and all. Perhaps you can keep each other warm whilst I'm gone?"

He untangles himself with surprising grace and dexterity, pulls on a shift and sword belt from next to the bed. The whores pout and flutter their eyes, he spends a while seeing to them whilst Combeferre waits patiently at the door, until finally he is ready to go.

"Are you sure you haven't come to join us?" he asks, giving Combeferre a deliberate once-over, dark eyes clear in their intent. "You know what they say about all work and no play."

"No, thank you. My lord."

Courfeyrac throws a resigned smile over his shoulder to the whores, then follows Combeferre out of the brothel and back onto the Street of Silk.

Instantly, he is serious, all charm and swagger gone from his movements as he slips into something more formal, more natural. Combeferre has always envied this talent, this ability to switch between sides of himself, between business and pleasure. But he also knows that he is one of the only people in Seven Kingdoms to see this side of Courfeyrac, to see the sword underneath all the silk.

Courfeyrac, Combeferre thinks, is the greatest player of them all.

He takes Combeferre's offered parchment without word, unfurls it and reads quickly, dark eyes scanning the message inside. Enjolras's writing has always been precise and formal, perfectly articulated, but there is a frantic energy to this, an excitement rippling just under the surface.

Even so, they wait until they are back at the Keep, until they are in the safety of Courfeyrac's own rooms to discuss the words. When the door closes Courfeyrac throws the parchment onto the desk carelessly, rounds on Combeferre himself, takes two steps across the room and crushes their lips together.

Combeferre closes his eyes, lifts hands to frame Courfeyrac's face, lets himself relax into the kiss for a brief, few, seconds, and then pulls back.

"A thousand whores," Courfeyrac says, sounding for once deadly serious, "All those in King's Landing and in Dorne, and none of them are you."

"I should hope not."

"You know what I mean. Christ, I was all ready to have a good time, and then you walk in with that frown and--" he cuts himself off with an annoyed sound, glares in the best way he can, and Combeferre is reminded that despite being a renowned romantic, rumoured to have a bed mate in every kingdom, Courfeyrac is also a ruthless fighter, when needs be.

"You lasted the entire walk back to the Keep, this time," Combeferre notes, extracting himself to head over to the desk, where Enjolras's letter still rests, in an attempt to deflect the conversation. They don't talk about what this is - or what it can be. Because it can't. 

"Would you rather I dragged you into an alley and had my way with you instead?" Courfeyrac asks, watching him carefully as he unrolls the parchment again. They don't talk about that time, either. A pause, and then he adds, "He's different, isn't he?"

"He would certainly never drag anyone into an alley, no," Combeferre replies, deliberately obtuse, then relents, "He's excited. He always gets this way, when he has a cause, some justice he wants to pursue."

"Such a shame it's not one his father also wants."

Courfeyrac moves to read the letter over his shoulder, a warmth at his side. Combeferre has come to realise, in recent years, that he never feels quite right without the two of them next to him, without their reassurance, their structure.

It was one of the reasons he'd argued to stop Enjolras going North, selfish though he knew it was. He just didn't see what would be worth leaving this. What could he possibly achieve in the North, when Courfeyrac and Combeferre were in the South?

Not that Enjolras had been given a chance to stay. Banishment for Lannisters was final and set in stone - and they were always too proud, too stubborn, to fight back. Too busy trying to prove themselves.

"He speaks well of the rangers," Courfeyrac acknowledges, "Seems like he admires this First Ranger, Feuilly. And the Lord Commander."

Combeferre nods, but cannot help the frown that pulls his brows together. Enjolras's letters, whilst assuring them that all is well, have not followed the path Combeferre expected. "He was sent to be Lord Commander."

"You southerners, you don't understand." Courfeyrac sighs and pulls the letter from his grasp, then moves across the room, oblivious to the irk he provokes. "You think titles and birth and sex are all that matters. You are wrong."

"It's easy to say that, when you are a Prince of Dorne."

"Don't be pedantic," the Prince replies, "You know you are more powerful than half the nobles in King's Landing, despite your blood. You think Enjolras can just ride in with an order written by the King and take over, when that Wall has stood unshaken for thousands of years? That isn't how true power works. Titles, blood, gender, it does not matter when the cold winds blow. You know that."

Combeferre does, and he doesn't.

He knows how King's Landing works, has found his own way amidst the scheming and the politics and the backstabbing. He holds a dozen strings, works a hundred more. Being a member of a lesser house, he is easily overlooked, always forgotten. His family has no true standing, will never change the fate of the Seven Kingdoms; he will marry no Princesses, he will wear no crowns.

But that doesn't mean he won't befriend them, or influence the way they think. He grew up at Casterly Rock with Enjolras, has learnt from the master of them all, his father. He knows the power of words, of friendships, of an alliance at the right time.

"He speaks of another," he says, "Grantaire."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say he has his first crush," Courfeyrac replies, laughing at the idea, genuinely delighted. Combeferre can't help but smile in response; Courfeyrac is as warm as the sun on his crest. "Or his first enemy, it's hard to tell."

"Enjolras has made many enemies."

"You know what I mean, the kind who you bicker with and hate but secretly crave the attention of. He writes about how the man goes North, how he goes out ranging alone and calls it preposterous - then in the same sentence praises the First Ranger for choosing his men wisely and playing to their strengths. He talked to him about what he saw on these ranging missions, debated politics with him, he wouldn't do that unless he thought the man had brains. The ranger sounds much more educated, knows far more than you would expect, in such an isolated place."

"But what about what he says next," Combeferre presses, determined to get to the part that worries him, "About Mance, this King-Beyond-the-Wall?"

"People have been declaring themselves Kings all year," Courfeyrac replies, rolling his eyes.  He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, careless. "It hardly makes any difference."

"I don't know, this sounds serious." A King-Beyond-the-Wall may seem a distant threat now, but should he lose the extra words and become just a King, marching towards King's Landing... "Enjolras certainly thinks so."

"Enjolras also thinks we should have elected leaders, like anyone could ever agree to put just one person in charge," Courfeyrac points out. He doesn't seem to put the same weight to this letter as Combeferre. It is not that he doesn't take it seriously - he wouldn't have left the brothel if he thought word from Enjolras wasn't worth his time - he just does not see it as a threat.

Combeferre changes tact. "He says he's going to ask this ranger, Grantaire, how Mance constructed his government. Do you think he will go North to find out?"

"I don't fucking know, Combeferre. Probably? Look, I get it, I get that you miss him, that you're taking his banishment hard, but you can't keep reading into things. If you really think it's that bad, if you truly think he shouldn't be there, that he's in danger, just say the word and I'll ride North and drag him back kicking and screaming if I have to. Fuck whatever his father says."

Combeferre hates that there is a part of him that warms at the idea, a little jump in his chest that comes with the possibility that there is someone who might do that for him, might travel the entire length of the country to make him feel better about something.

Because he cannot have those feelings, cannot let this go too far, not when Courfeyrac has to play the game of thrones, and survive. 

"You're doing that thing," says Courfeyrac, stepping closer again, "That thoughtful face you get when you're planning. What are you thinking about?"

For once, Combeferre sees no reason to lie, answers simply: "You."

Courfeyrac's gaze softens, his smile lights up the room. Combeferre has always been unable to resist that smile; many have. "So I'm guessing you want me to go be a white knight to make you feel better?"

He sighs. "No. No, you're right. Enjolras needs to work through whatever he's working through, and we have to keep everything stable here, for when he returns."

Courfeyrac's eyebrows rise in genuine surprise. "I'm sorry, did you just say I'm right?"

"Shut up," Combeferre replies, a little sharp, and cuts off Courfeyrac's 'make me' with his lips, presses close and lets himself have what he knows he cannot, for these brief moments.

For now the realm can wait.


	6. Enjolras

The yard rings with the sound of dull metal on metal, grunts and heavy curses. 

Enjolras stands at the centre of it all, stripped of his shining red armour. He wears the simple black training gear of all new recruits, his hair is pulled back roughly and secured by a thin band at the nape of his neck. Mud is smeared across his clothes, a bruise blooms on his cheek.

He looks nothing at all like a Lannister ought.

Bahorel faces off against him, huge and hulking. 

Since their first meeting, not three weeks ago, Enjolras has gone only from strength to strength. With each knock to the ground he gets back up again stronger, faster, wiser. 

There is always a crowd now, watching his every move. At first they just wanted to see him fall, but now, now they want to know just what he is capable of.  

It takes time, effort, resilience, but finally Enjolras upends Bahorel, sends him staggering backwards and follows through with a sharp swing of his sword. The metal glints as it slices through the air and comes to rest with the point at Bahorel's throat. Enjolras's hands are laced on the hilt; one shove and it would severe straight through. 

Bahorel's chest heaves where he lies on the ground, his own sword a yard away, knocked from his grip. He is disarmed, defeated, outmatched. 

He grins. 

Enjolras sheaths his sword and helps him to his feet, clasps hands with him in mutual respect. When he steps back, it's to drag his hand over his forehead, beaded with sweat. He looks exhausted, he looks worn, he looks triumphant.

They separate and go their opposite ways, Enjolras stops by the stables to check on his horse. There are not many others there; a ranging party was sent beyond the wall a few hours earlier.

But there is one, familiar, who he hasn't seen in a while. Something twists in his chest. 

"So I've been thinking about what you said," a voice says, and Enjolras looks up sharply from the horse to see Grantaire, leaning heavily against the divider between stalls. "Before I left."

"You thought about me?" Enjolras asks, looking him over, unprepared for the wave of relief at seeing him alive, seeing him well. He scrutinises the well-worn boots, the fraying robes, the growth on his jaw, not quite a beard but working at it. When he looks up Grantaire is watching him curiously, blue eyes surprised. 

"Don't get ahead of yourself," he drawls, "I said I thought of your words. Seems you have one of those voices it's impossible to forget." 

He turns to head out of the stables. Enjolras moves after him quickly, long legs catching up easily as he replies, "So I've been told. What bit have you been thinking about?"

"About Mance, about elected Kings."

"A King can't be elected--" Enjolras starts to protest. 

"Tell that to his army," Grantaire cuts him off. "Anyway, I was thinking about what you said, about how he deserves to invade, even if it's our duty to stop him. And I still think you're fucking crazy, because like hell I want to be overrun by wildlings, but that wasn't your point, was it?"

Enjolras shakes his head, frustrated. He hated that Grantaire had left before he had time to explain himself. "It's his rule I'm interested in. I thought you might understand it better, having spent time close to them, having seen how they work. Did they vote for him? Or did he do battle? How did he come to power?"

"They believed in him," Grantaire replies simply, and shrugs. "They're wildlings, they're not as civilised as you seem to think. The Thenns--"

"If we could just find out how it happened," Enjolras talks over him, thoughtful now, "If we could see how his governance works, it could be applied. Hereditary rule makes no sense - whose to say the son won't be the complete opposite of the father? But a King who everyone wanted, one who the people voted to be in charge--"

"Wouldn't be a King at all," Grantaire echoes him, and grins when Enjolras looks across sharply. "Look, I listen, alright? I get what you're trying to say, but it's not going to happen." He scratches the side of his jaw, tugs at the beard that's trying to form. "Everyone's got an agenda, no one's going to agree on who should be in charge. The Martells will want one of theirs, the Boltons will want theirs, the Tyrells will want theirs... No one would ever vote for another."

"You're not looking at it the right way," Enjolras protests, close to scowling. "You're just focusing on the nobles. In a truly fair society, even the lowest would have a say, they would get to choose who is in charge too. And they won't care about house loyalty, they'll just want whoever will do right by them."

"And how would they vote? They can't read or write."

Their walking comes to a halt, Enjolras scowling. Grantaire turns to look at him, and Enjolras hates that he can see the grin that threatens in the curve of his lips, the way he can tell that all he wants to do is laugh. 

The way he knows he's being mocked but can't seem to get truly angry at Grantaire for it. 

"There are other ways," he replies finally, stubborn, "We can find a way."

"We?"

"I want you to take me North."

The smile disappears entirely from Grantaire's face, wiped away in an instant. "No."

"What do you mean no?"

"I mean of course, what a wonderful idea that won't see your father kill me -- what the fuck do you think I mean?" Grantaire demands, "There's no way I'm taking you North of the Wall. Not for some stupid idea, some -- whatever you've got in your head. No way."

"Why not?" Enjolras persists, "Mance clearly found a way to unite everyone, they had to vote somehow. I doubt all the wildlings can read and write. I have to find out how - I have to know."

"You have to stay alive, that's what you have to do," Grantaire disagrees, starts walking again in the direction of the common hall. His movements are jerky and furious now, anger barely held back. "There's a war coming, and I'm not taking you North so you can be massacred before it even starts. I refuse."

"Then I will go alone."

"Fine," Grantaire sends back over his shoulder, "See if I care."

"I'll work it all out by myself."

"Good."

"Great."

\- - - 

"I fucking hate you," Grantaire announces, two days later as they watch the gate creak ever higher. Beyond the wall the cold winds blow, snow falls in great storms and the sky rolls grey. 

Patria shifts restlessly underneath him, not liking the bleak landscape ahead. Enjolras smooths a hand down her mane, glances over at where Grantaire sits astride Honour, glaring viciously off at a point in the distance. 

"You can still stay behind," he says. "Castle Black's just at the other end of the tunnel."

"Piss off," replies Grantaire.

The gate shrieks its way to a halt above them, chains rattling and then pulling still, creaking. Enjolras tightens his grip on Patria's reins, and urges her forwards. Her hooves thud dully on the ice, are soon swallowed up by the blanket of snow. The wind howls.

Grantaire follows. 


	7. Eponine [interlude ii]

"Time to go?"

Gavroche jumps down onto the wooden balcony, appearing suddenly out of the shadows, silent as the name of the tower he's just jumped off the roof of.

Eponine spares him a sidelong glance, is unable to quench the fear that spikes through her when she sees him already balancing on his heels on the platform edge. But she tempers it with resilience and the knowledge that a rebuke only serves to push him further away.

"I know you spoke to him," Gavroche continues, "And I know he knows who we are."

She knows what he expects her to say, what by all rights she should be saying. A Lannister at the wall is dangerous for many reasons, not least for them. 

"See, I've been thinking," he continues, despite her silence. He twists his body, begins walking on the edge, balanced like a wire pulled tight. "He's gone North, with Grantaire. Chances are they don't come back, but a guy like him, he disappears, people notice. They come looking." He turns sharply, and if there's hurt in his tone, because no one came for him, she can't hear it. "Maybe even  _he_  comes looking. You want to be here when that happens?"

It bothers her, sometimes, that Gavroche is wiser than his years. That he isn't the kid he should be. Not for the first time, she wonders what happened to him, in the space between Valjean rescuing Cosette and when Gavroche found her at the Wall. What he did in those lost years, when she didn't have an eye on him. 

"He'll come back," she says, "Grantaire's with him."

"Grantaire will stab him in the back first chance he gets," says Gavroche, sure. Then, he wavers. "Or maybe not, who knows."

"Because that's what you'd do?" Eponine asks, turning to watch as he balances. Sometimes, it feels like there's a huge gulf between them, something years cannot fill. He was only a kid when everything happened - is still a kid now. 

She's old enough to remember what it was like before, when it was good. Can remember the soft beds and the feathered pillows. The charm of the Tyrells and the smell of the rose gardens. What a comfortable life had been like, with parents who cared. 

Gavroche was too young for that, his memories were tempered. He knows what it's like to have parents who are becoming withdrawn, who are clutching at straws, who are watching their schemes fall apart.

"I don't need you," Gavroche points out, "I could go by myself if I want." Just like he came to the wall as he wanted, as he occasionally went to Mole's Town, as he traversed the Wall and no doubt beyond. Eponine knows he would be gone in an instant, if his mind was made up, but something is obviously holding him back. 

"But you haven't," she points out, cautious, "What's keeping you here? What are you afraid of?"

He finally stops balancing, sits down abruptly on the edge. The platform wavers slightly at the sudden movement; it's a rickety structure, put up recently by the builders to see to reparations. Eponine hesitates a second, and then joins him. They both swing their legs. 

"I heard them talking," he says after a pause, "They did it a lot, before they disappeared."

She thinks about asking him to clarify who they are, but it seems obvious.

"Is there anyone you don't spy on?"

He gives her a look. "Grantaire looks at him differently. He doesn't look at him like a Lannister." He sounds like he can't quite understand his own words, his nose scrunches up. She has to remind herself sometimes that he's a teenager. "And he listens, too. Is Mance really coming?"

He sounds so young suddenly, so vulnerable.

They've never been in a war before. He's only ever heard of them from old tales, shared at night to the sound of crackling fires, re-created them in the shadows of night with his imagination. Everyone's heard of what's going on in the rest of the realm, which Kings have risen - and which have died. It might not have affected them yet, but they're aware of the spilt blood. 

"He is." She's never lied to him, never will. "And he's bringing an army. And the King - the real one - any of them - whatever - they won't send soldiers to save us."

"And the White Walkers?" his words are quieter, almost lost to the night. 

A shiver runs down her spine. She looks across the grounds of Castle Black to the Wall, imposing even in darkness. The top disappears way above them in shadow, the impenetrable blackness of night.

She opens her mouth, but before she gets chance to respond, a horn sounds. 

And then, another. 

Her breath catches and --


	8. Enjolras

"You aren't wearing red," Grantaire says, two days North of the Wall.

Enjolras glances across at him, but Grantaire is looking solidly ahead. He thinks he can see a slight curve to his lips, but the snow swirling around in the air between them gives everything a fuzzy quality.

He looks down at where his own hands grip Patria's reins, black leather. The heavy black cuffs of his cloak cover up to his knuckles. The darkness carries on from there, up to the fur-lined collar, steel-grey.

Grantaire is in similar garb; together they look like a small ranging party, just two brothers of the Night's Watch. 

"Your point?" Enjolras asks, when the silence that stretches between them implies Grantaire wants a response.

"You don't really look like a Lannister right now."

That makes him laugh, a short exhaled breath. "Maybe I don't want to." 

"Doesn't everyone want to look like a Lannister?" Grantaire asks, a deliberate attempt at needling him. "Blonde hair, sharp cheekbones, legs that go on forever, the ability to literally shit gold?"

Enjolras arches an eyebrow. "Literally," he echoes, deadpan.

"Sore subject?" Grantaire continues, as if he never spoke. "You know, we've never talked about--"

"Your family?" Enjolras cuts across him, "You're right, we haven't. How good of you to bring it up. Where do you want to start? How about with what your last name even is."

"Pass."

Enjolras gives that response the stare it deserves. Grantaire looks stonily back at him, a stand-off. Enjolras has faced a far better opponent in his father -- eventually Grantaire looks away, runs a hand back through his unkempt hair, agitated. 

"I don't have a last name," he says finally, "I'm a bastard."

"Every bastard has a last name. Depends on the family you came from."

"Why?" Grantaire asks sharply, "What's the point? Why take a name when the family doesn't even want you? Might as well take their name if you're going to take a name that ties them to you anyway."

"Bastards can't have the family name." It's an old rule, Enjolras can't see why people would want to overturn it. Bastards can't be trusted, but they can be useful. Two degrees of separation. The Boltons knew that better than anyone. True-born children usually made the best heirs but occasionally, knowing who your bastards were and where they were, could prove useful. 

Grantaire shrugs. "Maybe the bastards don't want it."

Enjolras attempts to read between the lines. "So you came to the Wall?" 

"It's not a choice for all of us," Grantaire replies, turning his head to look at him, "We don't all have rich families to fall back on."

He probably just means it as one of his usual jibes, but this time it gets under Enjolras's skin. Makes him snap faster than usual, "You think it was my choice? You think I like being up here in this frozen wasteland with a group of people who don't trust me? You think I like being knocked to the ground on a regular basis and laughed at?" He brings Patria up short, she lets out a whinny of protest then turns, her hooves stamping the frozen ground in agitation. 

Grantaire doesn't seem to make a move but Honour stops also, and if a horse could look disdainful, his does. He turns his big unimpressed eyes on Enjolras, then snorts and shakes out his mane. 

"I want to be back in the South," Enjolras continues, "I want to make a difference. I want to be trying to use my  _name_ , to help people. But instead I'm here, surrounded by people who refuse to accept those who are not their own, who cower away from the wildlings and whatever else is out there but are too stubborn to ask for help, who know that there's a War coming - one they can't  _win_ , I might add - but just put all their faith in a Wall."

"To be fair, it has stood for thousands--" Grantaire starts to say, an effort to lighten the mood, but the smile slips from his face almost instantly when Enjolras continues.

"I could make a difference here, I  _know_  I could help the Night's Watch, but I'm surrounded by people who won't _listen_ , too stuck in their ways to show any  _respect--_ "

"Respect?" Grantaire interjects, looking angry now, like he had when he'd faced down Lamarque and Javert and the others, at the meeting upon his return. "That's what you want? Respect? See, you Lords, Ladies, High born, you don't get it, none of you do. You think a name entitles you to all these things, that it somehow makes you better than others. You walk in with your stupid proud head and your big grand ideas and you expect everyone to just bow down before you."

Enjolras remembers his first entrance, the silence of the hall, his words and Lamarque's response. The way the flames had flickered, sending shadows up the wall, and all he had felt was hostility. 

"Well guess what?" Grantaire continues, furious, "That's not how it works. Yes, I'm riding North with you, but you know why that is?  _Because I don't want you to fucking die_. Because I think you're an idiot, because you would have gone on without me, because I respect those men back at the Wall, and if you disappeared your father would bring the wrath of all Seven Kingdoms down on us and I don't want them to die. It has nothing -  _nothing_  - to do with respect."

There is colour high on his cheeks. Red, Enjolras thinks, fire, but his eyes are like ice. 

"Respect is  _earned_ ," Grantaire says, "And right now you're doing a piss-poor job of getting mine."

He glares at him for a second longer and then turns abruptly, pulls on Honour's reins and sets off again. Enjolras is left staring after him, smooths a hand down Patria's mane absently, thoughtful. Grantaire's words echo around his head, turn into his father's, become Combeferre's before he left, Courfeyrac's.

_And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?_


	9. Grantaire

They're almost two weeks North of the wall when it happens. 

They stop in an alcove of ice and rock, a fissure in the ground that has pushed itself up against the elements over the years, a brief respite against the elements. Grantaire fights with kindling and swears under his breath as he tries to get it to light in the sub-zero temperatures, his hands numb.

His hair has grown long, escapes from the thin tie at the nape of his neck to curl into his eyes, pushed frustratedly back out of the way as he works. Enjolras still looks completely unmoved, as good-looking as ever, unwashed and worn down by their journey.

Grantaire had thought he would crack, given a day, two, without his comforts - but he hadn't. He'd kept going, kept up his stubborn beliefs, had pulled Grantaire into debate after debate, tempered down after that first explosive argument. He'd used him to sharpen his ideas, to fine-tune his rhetoric, until Grantaire found that they were almost getting along, agreeing, even. __

It was as if something else drove Enjolras on, something unlike any other man in his position. It wasn't money, or power, or wealth, but something else, some desire for justice, for what was right. When he talked about it, it burned.

Grantaire chances a glance up at him now, as he scouts on ahead, turned away as he looks towards the Frostfangs. He still stands like he did when he first arrived at the wall, proud and tall, like he's challenging the world to take him on.

But Grantaire knows there's more now, knows that he's been trained to stand like that, that it comes as naturally as breathing. That he challenges the world to prove him wrong - he  _wants_  to be proved wrong, and--

There's movement, suddenly.

Grantaire is on his feet in seconds, but he's not quick enough. The arrow shoots straight into Enjolras's shoulder. He shouts out in pain, turns, his sword drawn as another arrow goes flying past. 

Grantaire's feet kick up snow as he runs, taking in the wildling just over the ledge. Hidden amongst the rocks and sparse foliage, now trying to kill the one man who-- He gets over the first mound and onto the man before the thought can fully form in his mind, lands a blow that sends him toppling backwards. 

There's a brief flash of acknowledgement, they've seen each other before.

Only the wildling doesn't go down easy, gets a leg around his, pulls him down too. The breath goes out of him as he lands and then the wildling has hands in his cloak, rolls over on top of him and then smashes his head back into the rock.

Everything goes black, then Enjolras's voice: "Get the  _fuck_  off him."

The heavy weight on his chest lessens, when Grantaire can breathe again it's to see Enjolras and the wildling trading blows, swords and fists alike. Fresh blood drips from the wound in Enjolras's shoulder; he must have pulled out the arrow.

"You idiot," says Grantaire, at the same time the wildling gets the upper hand. Enjolras goes down with a cry of pain and there's a flash of swords in the darkness, a spray of blood, as red as rubies. A gurgled cry, and then silence. 

Grantaire's shoulders heave, he feels like he can't breathe.

"You killed for me," says Enjolras. 

His eyes are wide, his breath comes fast. Grantaire leans over him with his sword still buried in the chest of the wildling, who lies slumped across him. The body gives one last twitch, bleeds blood across the pure white snow. Grantaire's hair falls into his eyes, he turns his face away, not letting Enjolras see his expression. 

"You killed him to save me," Enjolras repeats. It seems significant, somehow. He reaches up, his gloved hand smooths over the rough skin of Grantaire's jaw, who is powerless but to turn and face him.

Grantaire's eyes are dark in the moonlight, unreadable. But his expression is open, vulnerable, helpless. He knows he's taken a step he can't take back. He's gone against orders. 

_"You are not to antagonise Mance," Lamarque had said, back at the wall, before they'd left. "Do not bring a war down upon us all."_

Now one of his generals lies on the floor, dead, and Enjolras and Grantaire are alive. 

Enjolras shoves the dead body out of the way, gets to his feet again with a wince of pain. As his hand comes up to where the arrow hit, there's movement, and then a dagger shines against his throat. 

"Well now," says a voice, "What do we have here? Two crows, out for a stroll?"

Grantaire's heart sinks in his chest, Enjolras's eyes are wide. When Grantaire looks past him to the wildling, its to see fierce determination, and a woman who won't back down. "Don't kill him," he says, at the same time Enjolras says, "I'm not a crow."

"Sure do look like one," says the woman, pressing the dagger closer to Enjolras's throat. "If you're not a crow then what are you?" He bottom lip curls in disdain as she looks over his hair, his too-perfect clothes. "A peacock?"

"A Lannister."

The words come not from Enjolras, but from another, hidden until now. He drops down from the rocks easily, takes one look at the dead body on the floor, then steps over him as if he'd never seen him before. He's gangly, tall, awkward, not a fighter by any stretch of the imagination. There's a chain that could almost be a Maester's, would that not be so absurd, so far North, hanging around his chest.

"I'd know that sword anywhere," he continues, indicating the one hanging at Enjolras's hip with a nod of his head. "Love putting lions on anything they can, Lannisters do. Not very subtle."

He turns, then, to Grantaire. "Hello, R."

"Joly," Grantaire returns, and sheaths his sword. The woman holding Enjolras doesn't falter, Grantaire refuses to look and see what the blond's expression is like, can imagine the betrayal all too well, knows he couldn't face the condescension he would see there.

"Let us go," he says, "We won't bother you."

"Bit late for that," Joly points out, nudging the dead body with his foot. "Any other time, I would have let you go, you know that. But not with this, I can't. Or with him." He glances over at Enjolras thoughtfully, then gives a nod to the woman. "Bind his hands, Musichetta."

Enjolras swears, and tries to resist, but she manhandles him into a kneeling position, yanks his arms behind his body so she can wrap rope around his wrists. Grantaire keeps his face turned away, stubborn, digs his fingernails into his palms against the sound of Enjolras's struggles.

"Joly," he tries again.

"Sorry," Joly says, his voice soft, "But this time I'm taking you to Mance."

They make an odd party. Joly takes the lead, Musichetta tugs Enjolras along. He glares at Grantaire, who does anything but look at him, even as he feels the anger radiating from him. 

They make sure to burn the body before they go. 


	10. Enjolras

Enjolras's arms ache, his muscles burning from the awkward position, but still he refuses to say anything. He grits his teeth as Joly inspects the wound in his chest, dabbing at the skin with a foul-smelling ointment, muttering under his breath.

Objectively, Enjolras knows his anger is misplaced. It's not that he - they - were caught, or that someone shot him with an arrow; it didn't go too deep, or sever anything vital. The wildling, Joly, is fixing him up just fine, he cannot hold that against him either.

His anger is rooted in something else, the thought repeating over at the back of his mind:  _Grantaire knew him._

Grantaire and Joly knew each other by name, well enough that it seemed like they had met before on more than one occasion, and the anger burns. Grantaire never told him, never even  _implied_  that he knew a wildling, even after everything they had talked about. He knew of Enjolras's interest in Mance and how politics worked North of the Wall, yet he had said nothing.  __

And what about his brothers? What about the Men of the Night's Watch? Feuilly, Jehan, Bahorel, all back at the Wall waiting. What would they say? Did they know?

"Do you always frown this much?" Joly asks, dropping the blood-stained rag into a nearby bucket of ice water. "It's not good for the soul."

Enjolras frowns deeper. Joly looks up at him from where he crouches in front of him, and grins. He really lives up to his name. For their entire walk back to the wildling encampment he'd kept up a steady stream of conversation, smiling and laughing as he talked to Grantaire. He hadn't even grimaced when he'd seen Enjolras's wound, just whistled softly and got to work. 

The woman was another entity entirely, keeping Enjolras close and his bonds tight as they walked. 

Grantaire hadn't looked at him. 

"So what's a Lannister doing North of the Wall?" Joly asks, genuine curiosity on his face. It is the first time someone has not asked him with scorn. 

"What's a wildling doing with a Maester's chain?" he returns, and glances down at the unfinished chain around Joly's neck as he stretches out his fingers behind his back absently, trying to keep feeling in the digits. 

Joly shrugs, and doesn't try to deflect. "I was one, once. Or rather, I was almost one. In my final years my studies took me North, where I was stolen by a spearwife." Rather than ashamed, he looks delighted, he grins over Enjolras's shoulder to where Musichetta still stands guard by the tent's entrance. "And I never looked back."

Enjolras can feel his curiosity getting the better of him, the desire to know more, to find out how wildling culture works. How, precisely, does a woman steal a man? And what does the name spearwife mean? Is she already married? What if Joly had resisted?

Joly gets to his feet, finds some material that will serve as bandages nearby, then returns to begin wrapping his chest. "It'll heal," he says, "Don't worry. You'll have a pretty little scar, but nothing serious. Better than being stabbed through the heart."

Enjolras thinks of the other body lying on the snow, the blood spreading out, and Grantaire's expression, when he'd killed to save him. 

"Don't worry," says Joly, misinterpreting his look, "Grantaire will be fine. Mance won't kill him -- at least, not unless he has reason to make a point. Or Grantaire pisses him off." It's not reassuring. 

He finishes the bandages, steps back to look at them with a critical eye. "Now, does Musichetta need to hold you down again so we can get your cloak and shirt back on, or are you going to co-operate this time?" 

Enjolras tests his hands behind him again, the circulation isn't the best. He nods reluctantly, and Musichetta moves towards them. She pulls a knife from the folds of her cloak, uses it to slice open the bonds. "You're not the only person I've had to tie up. We tried to return him once," she says, looking past him to Joly. "The Maesters didn't want him back."

It takes a moment for Enjolras to realise she's joking. He blinks, and then offers a tentative smile, as his arms are released and he can bring his hands forwards. He begins massaging the joints as he says, "Thank you."

He pulls his undershirt back on easily enough, it's just a matter of tugging it back up his arms from where Joly had initially pushed it away. As he begins doing up the ties, the flap serving as an entrance to the tent is pulled back. He turns to see who it is and feels his heart stutter in his chest when he sees Grantaire. 

He thought the first thing he would feel was anger -  _more_  anger at him, for knowing Joly and then ignoring him on the walk here, for letting them be separated as soon as they arrived - but instead what he feels is relief. 

"He didn't kill you," is the first thing he says.

Grantaire, who had looked hesitant when arriving, then wary upon seeing him, moves through to surprise. He looks as if he is about to say something, then catches sight of the bandages around Enjolras's exposed chest. His eyes widen, then he looks away sharply, and Enjolras hastily finishes fastening his shirt, taking his cloak from where Musichetta had thrown it. 

"Yeah," Grantaire says finally, hoarse. He coughs and clears his throat. "Yet."

Enjolras frowns at that, reaches for his gloves. "Did you give him reason to?"

Grantaire glances sideways at Joly, who is taking great pains to look inconspicuous. When he looks back to Enjolras, it's with an expression that says he wants to say more but can't. "He wants to see you."

\-----

Mance's tent is easily four times the size of the one Joly had been in. Enjolras knows that property isn't really a thing wildlings understand, but occasionally needs must. 

The King Beyond the Wall sits amongst his men, indistinguishable from the rest, if not for that aura all men in power have. Enjolras has seen it in his father, and mimicked in those who wish to be him. It is not something you can fake; Mance's is real. 

He drops to one knee in front of him as he says, "Your Highness."

A man nearby snorts with laughter, it ripples around the room. When Enjolras looks up, it's to see the sharp sight of disdain in Mance's eyes, though his expression is impassive. "Get up, boy. We do not kneel here, not to anyone."

Enjolras frowns, draws himself up feeling unbalanced, though part of him leaps at the idea. It's clear that Mance is respected by his entire army, and yet -- and yet they do not treat him as a King. At least, not the Kings Enjolras has known. 

He itches to know more. 

"Your High--" he starts to say, and catches himself, frowning, "Ser." It doesn't feel right, sits heavy on his tongue. He heard Joly, nothing more than a wildling Maester, call him by his first name. He tries it out: "Mance."

"How many bloody names do you lot have for people?" one of the other generals asks. 

Mance hold a hand up to halt him as Enjolras fights back the humiliation that runs down his spine. He feels like he's back in his father's room, being chastened, always one step behind, always falling short. 

"It's a sign of respect," he snaps, his temper flaring for a brief second, frustration and embarrassment mingled. "To acknowledge where power lies. For example: with this man, and not you."

The bald man stares at him, clearly taken aback, and then grins. "The lion's got claws."

"They always do," Mance says finally, drawing Enjolras's attention back. "I heard the stories of your father when I was a crow. About what he did, during the war."

Enjolras meets his gaze squarely, refuses to back down. "I am not my father."

"No," agrees Mance, looking him over, "You're not."

It's hard to tell if it's a compliment or a condemnation. For all Enjolras's life he has been facing the latter, but Mance does not seem like a man who would be swayed by gold and past history. "Come," he says, gesturing next to him, "Sit."

Enjolras glances at the other generals, at the bald man with his grin, and then takes the seat. 

"Why are you here?" asks Mance.

Enjolras chooses honesty: "I want to know more about you, about how this works. Our current system is flawed, hereditary succession is archaic, it serves no purpose. They don't believe in voting in a King, or that it would be possible and yet-- Here you are."

"Here I am," Mance agrees. He shifts in his seat so he can look Enjolras in the eye. "With an army, united. With people, who all want me here. And a Lord whose title they don't understand riding with a crow, who they hate, who killed a general, that was a very good man. What am I to do? You will be a powerful hostage, when we scale the wall."

"When?" asks Enjolras, unable to hold back, "You mean if."

Mance gives him a look and repeats, "When." 

Enjolras frowns, but Mance doesn't look likely to divulge his secrets. He changes tact: "My father doesn't negotiate."

"Unlucky for you."

"Keep me alive," Enjolras replies, "And I'm of more use. My father might not talk to his enemies - but there are others.  _If_  you scale the Wall,  _if_  you reach the Seven Kingdoms, you'll need help, influence. There are armies there, and other Kings. You might think you can just walk in but there are allegiances, there are betrayals -- you rush in and you'll be blind-sided, they'll wipe you out. My father, the Starks, the Greyjoys, it doesn't matter, someone will. And how long will your army last, once they're in warm lands, and free?"

He doesn't mean to speak so much -- but then he does. The words just come out, passionate. It wasn't what he came here to say, but it's exactly how he feels. 

Mance's look doesn't waver, but there's a slight shift. Enjolras wishes he could read it, understand what it meant. 

"You have something good here," Enjolras continues, trying for a more gentle approach this time, reining in his anger. "You have elected power, the people want you. Don't throw their lives away. Your first duty is to them, to what will keep most of them safe."

Silence falls after his words, filled only by the crackling of the logs in the fire in the centre of the tent. No one dares break it, until the bald man says, quietly, "He's good."

Enjolras's heart thuds in his chest, he watches the expression of the King-Beyond-the-Wall. 

"I've decided to let you live," he says after a pause, and Enjolras releases a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding. "You've got some interesting ideas in that southern head of yours. We'll see what happens next."

Enjolras nods. He knows a veiled threat when he hears one; they're safe, but only for now. 

"And the Ranger?" Mance asks.

Enjolras feels his chest go tight. "What about him?"

"You know how it is, with crows," he says, "They're not our biggest fans, and we're not theirs. Plus, he killed one of mine. My men are asking for his head."

Panic clenches in his chest. "No," he says immediately, "Grantaire -- no. He killed him, but it was -- it was for me. He didn't want to come North, he wanted me to stay away." It's not enough, he knows it's not. "If you kill him, you will regret it. I will make sure of it."

The tension in the room sharpens, he just threatened their King.

Mance eyes him thoughtfully, that worn face as impassive, unreadable. Enjolras knows he should back down, that he should rapidly apologise, that people who make a habit of offending Kings don't last long -- but he has always been quick to anger, has a tendency to be the first to defend those he cares for, even at the cost of his own reputation, his own life. He can't let them kill Grantaire. 

"A Lannister who would put his own life on the line for a man of the Night's Watch," Mance says, curious, "You are an interesting man indeed. You shall both live, for now."

Relief floods through him. 

"Do not make me regret it."


	11. Grantaire

"You know I didn't want to," says Joly.

Grantaire looks up from where he's staring into the fire at the centre of camp. His thoughts drift, it takes a while for him to bring them back together, frowning as works out what Joly is referring to.

"Right," he says, glancing across at him, "Like how you're a free man who just so happens to answer to a King."

"That's different," Joly sighs, resigned. It's an old argument between them. "I am free to choose who I follow, and I choose Mance. Just like you're choosing to follow this Lannister - wherever he's taking you."

Joly always could cut straight to the heart of the matter, with his big smiles and his easy jokes. He does it now, with a tone like they're talking about changes in the weather. "I'm not following anyone," Grantaire replies. It's a lie, and they both know it.

"Why are you with him?" asks Joly. "He's a liability."

"That he is," Grantaire agrees grimly, watching as Enjolras continues to move around the camp, talking to different people, trying to understand how they think, learn more about them, asking them questions they don't particularly want to answer. Soon enough he's going to piss someone off, and Grantaire's going to have to save his life again.

"But he's also--" he cuts himself off with a frown, not sure how to end the sentence. He can't explain it himself, there's just  _something_ about Enjolras, something about how he looks when he's angry, the way justice rings through him, how he's so determined to create a better world. 

Grantaire could sit and listen to him for hours, would sit at those feet and do whatever Enjolras ordered, if given the chance. 

(But that does not, necessarily, mean that he thinks that he can achieve it.)

"Very pretty?" asks Joly, and grins. 

Grantaire elbows him in the side, and glares. There isn't much heat behind it (anyone with eyes can see just how pretty Enjolras is). He tries to explain again: "He's -- He can -- His ideas --" he cuts himself off, frustrated. "He makes me believe."

Joly, when he looks at him, is still grinning, but there's something different about it, something softer. "And that's what Mance does for us."

They sit in silence for a little while, half of Grantaire's attention on the wine he drinks, the other perpetually on Enjolras, interrupted finally by the arrival of Bossuet. In the time since he and Grantaire last saw each other several months ago, he's lost what little hair he had left, is now completely bald. He trips into place between them, sitting down heavily and slinging one arm around Joly. 

Grantaire's always known that wildlings don't treat relationships the same way they do, but it still always startles him, to be reminded that this is allowed. That not only are Joly and Bossuet free to be together, but that they're also free to spend that time with Musichetta. 

He wonders what Westeros would be like, if the wildlings did make it South of the Wall, if Mance gained some holding and became a real King. 

And then he remembers that if they were to do that, they would have to scale the Wall. Scale the Wall, and kill all of his Brothers. The thought sobers him, reminds him that whilst he and Joly have always had a truce, it does not extend to the rest of Mance's army. He's also realistic enough to know that their truce would mean nothing, if Mance rescinded his order to let Grantaire and Enjolras live, for now. 

Joly hadn't wanted to bring Grantaire here because he knew what the other wildlings would do to a man of the Night's Watch, a group they had always hated, in preparation for their assault on the Wall. Grantaire's agreement with Joly to never raise arms against each other had come years ago, when Grantaire had saved his life and Joly had later returned the favour, but an oath to a King superseded all others.

He gets up from the rock they're sitting on, leaving Bossuet and Joly together, completely oblivious to his departure. He finds Enjolras on the outskirts of the camp, watched by a steely-eyed guard who carries his sword for him, the proud lion's hilt glinting in the firelight. 

Enjolras's eyes move to it occasionally, his expression unreadable. He glances up when Grantaire steps up beside him, and his expression _shifts_ \- but Grantaire still can't quite work it out. 

"We need to leave," says Grantaire, looking out across the frozen wasteland, shrouded in the darkness of night. 

"Sure," says Enjolras, wry, "Let me just grab my cloak."

Ordinarily, Grantaire would smile, but he's too preoccupied by the dark thoughts swirling around his head. "We need to get back to the Wall."

Enjolras must sense something of his mood, because all attempts at humour vanish, "I agree. But not without Honour and Patria. And weapons." He doesn't say  _my sword_ , but the implication is there. 

Grantaire is surprised, he expected more resistance, "You don't want to find out more about elected rulers? Kings people actually like?" He doesn't want Enjolras to stay, but he won't leave without him. "We can stay longer if you--"

"No," says Enjolras, "Getting back to the Wall is more important. The number of people here, this army, Lamarque has no idea. You tried to tell them back at the Wall and they never listened, they should have listened to you, _I_ should have listened to you--"

"Enjolras," Grantaire interrupts, and there's some sort of feeling in his chest, something warm that just seeps through to his bones at the thought of Enjolras caring so much, at how worried he actually is for the others, "I'm serious, if there's anything else you want, anything you need, the Wall can wait, we can still get back, we--"

"We shouldn't have left," Enjolras interrupts him, "We need to get things prepared, the defences, we're not ready--"

And that's it, that's the moment. The word  _we're_ slipping from Enjolras's lips, the implication that he's one of them, not apart, not different, and Grantaire surges forwards. 

Partly it's to shut him up and partly it's to thank him and partly it's just mindless  _feeling_ , as he closes the distance between them and kisses Enjolras. 

They get a moment, maybe two, a heartbeat. Enough time for Grantaire to register Enjolras's lips against his, his own hands curled into the front of his cloak to pull him forwards, breath warm against his. 

Then a horn sounds in the darkness, a cry goes up from the camp. Enjolras pulls away sharply, Grantaire releases him, his hand going for the sword that's no longer at his belt. "Shit," he swears, "Fuck."

The horn sounds again, and that's when the screams start.


	12. Cosette [interlude iii]

Cosette has never liked heights. 

She went to Starfall once, when she was little, pulled along by Azelma and Eponine against her will. They wanted to show her, to tease her, to take her to the place where her mother jumped to her death. To them it was exciting, thrilling, one of those mysteries people talked about for years.

For Cosette all it symbolised was loss. 

Standing alone in her tower in the Vale, she thinks about that moment now. About standing on the cliffs and listening to the wind and wondering what it was, that drove her mother to her own death.

Up here they have a Moon Door, used for getting rid of problems. One push and then gone. Is that how her mother had felt? One step and then it was all over? She didn't have to think about it any more.

She moves to the edge of the tower, curls her fingers around the edge of the window, takes a breath and leans forwards, trying to  _feel_ \--

The door opens and there is a clatter of pots and pans, a startled, "My lady!"

She pulls back from the window sharply as her direwolf springs, pinning the intruder to the floor of her chamber. Teeth bared, she snarls viciously.

"Lady, _no_ ," says Cosette, rushing forwards to curve her hand around the direwolf's collar, pulling her back from the boy underneath. "I'm so sorry, you just startled us, we weren't expecting..."

She trails off when she sees the boy - man - properly. He is nothing more than a servant, but her reactions aren't those of a lady for a servant. Butterflies spring to life in her chest, she feels light-headed, as she hadn't when peering out of the window. Her cheeks heat up.

"My lady," he says, apologetic, huge spots of red colouring his cheeks. "Don't apologise, it is all my fault, I shouldn't have presumed to--"

"No, don't apologise," she cuts in, "It is mine--"

"It is mine," he insists, "I startled you both."

Next to her, Lady sits back on her hind legs, nonchalant as she watches the exchange. Cosette's hand clenches and unclenches around her collar, nervous. She looks down at the floor, then up again at the servant. 

"Let us start again," she says, and takes a breath to centre herself, before attempting a smile. "Hello."

"Hello," he replies, and dimples when he smiles. 

 _Oh no_ thinks Cosette, and knows she is lost. "Hello."

She already said that, but it doesn't seem to matter -- neither of them seem to mind. Lady nudges at her palm, demanding to be stroked. She keeps one eye on the servant, considering, even as her tail wags. 

"Oh!" he says suddenly, "My name is Marius. Pontmercy. You probably haven't ever heard of us - no one has, really. We're not that big a family. And well, I'm not really part since my grandfather - well --" he cuts himself off, flustered. 

Cosette places a hand over his, reassuring, and replies, "Families aren't everything, not the ones we're born with. My name is Cosette."

"I know," he says, and then colours even deeper. He doesn't take his hand out from under hers. "I mean - I already knew - I mean. Combeferre." He says the name helplessly, like it's the only explanation he can give. 

Combeferre had been the one to steal her away from King's Landing, the one who had taken her down into the darkness, the never-ending tunnels, then out to the waiting boat in the darkness. She had been wrapped in a black cloak, hidden from view, her heart pounding with fear they'd be caught, but even so she'd stopped. 

"Come with me," she'd said, clasping his hands in hers. 

And he had shaken his head, looked back to the Keep, said, "I still have much more to do. This journey is only for you. Take Winterfell back, become a Queen."

She wondered who it was, who kept him from ever straying too far, who he would never leave King's Landing without.

He'd squeezed her hands once before letting go, stepping back into the darkness, a master of shadows. No one ever saw him, or noticed the power he held, didn't realise how many strings he pulled. 

So she is not surprised, now, to see he has sent a man to her, not after he defied the King himself to get her away. She wonders what long game he is playing, what his goal is. 

But Cosette is done with playing the games of others, of being a pawn. She has seen enough, come through enough that she knows what she wants. These men can think they are playing her, but she has her own destiny. She thinks Combeferre knew that, and he saw, before she left. As he had seen the light in Enjolras, that made him a leader his father could not acknowledge.

She looks at Marius now, at this servant who has been sent to help her and she thinks, perhaps, they can help each other. She is done with the games of men. Now it is her turn. She has the letters from Enjolras, she knows what waits beyond the Wall, what threatens the lands of her people -- the Kingdom of the North.

She has been so lost and so lonely for so long, but now, now she has a purpose, she has allies.

_Winter is Coming._


	13. Joly

When a horn sounds, it's never for anything good.

Joly is up and on his feet in seconds, Bossuet stumbles after him a moment later. "Where are the lord and his crow?" he asks, frowning and turning to look. There's no sign of Enjolras and Grantaire.

"Fuck," says Joly.

Musichetta materialises from the darkness, an arrow already notched in her bow. "They went towards the edge of camp," she says, "But that's not important right now." She dips the tip of her arrow into the fire, and only then does Joly realise that the end is not made of metal.

"Go and find them," Bossuet says, drawing his own sword, though it will be of little use, if Musichetta is already resorting to flame. His eyes meet Joly's, understanding. "They're unarmed."

Joly nods, even as his heart pounds in his chest. This isn't the first time that their army has had to face a threat, but it is one he would rather avoid. Screams sound across the camp, there is the sound of metal ringing out as swords clash.

Enjolras and Grantaire will not have met a White Walker before, they won't know what will work -- and what won't. Grantaire has experience of the North but not this, not yet. Fear tightens Joly's throat as he reaches out, clutching both Musichetta and Bossuet's hands for a brief second, before turning and disappearing into the darkness.

It is mayhem around him, chaos. People are running in different directions, searching for the threat, running from it, trying to protect themselves. Joly heads for where he knows the horses are being kept, with the others.

Only belatedly he realises he has no weapon -- but then, he never does. He shakes the thought away as he arrives at the make-shift paddock, only to see that it has been opened. People have already taken the horses, have made their escape on them, or ridden into battle. Only -- Only Grantaire's is still there, looking mulish and vicious. He snorts and stomps his feet, daring anyone to get close. He is a huge, ugly warhorse who does not match his name at all. But then, Grantaire had once confided in Joly when he'd been delirious from an infection and spouting nonsense, he'd been named for a joke, and the chance to say 'I left Honour behind'.

(With the irony being, of course, that he never would, that Grantaire cared far more for Honour - and honour - than knew.)

Joly can tell already that whoever tried to ride him has left in pain, there are signs of a struggle, a saddle half-tied, blood splatters the ground. He approaches the horse slowly, calmly, one hand outstretched. Honour turns huge, dark eyes on him and snorts, daring.

He gets a hand on Honour's mane when everything goes instantly, suddenly cold.

The temperature plummets, smoke blooms from Honour's nostrils as he exhales, agitated.

Joly turns, slowly, to see the White Walker.

His hand tightens in Honour's mane, knuckles white, and the White Walker tilts its head as it looks down at him. It is taller than Joly by far, spindly, its eyes a bright, ice blue. It seems a lifetime away, when it lifts its arm to strike him down -- 

\-- and another sword comes out of the darkness. 

Grantaire comes flowing forwards after it, followed by Enjolras. They both have swords, dangerous, unflinching. The White Walker loses interest in Joly instantly as he takes them on, growling something guttural at the back of its throat.  

There is movement behind them and then Patria appears, drawn by the noise of the battle. She, too, has struggled with a free folk rider; she drags their dead body by a foot in her stirrup.

"Why won't you fucking die?" Grantaire yells.

Joly uncurls his fingers from Honour's mane, stumbles across the distance to free Patria from her load, fingers trembling. The wind roars through his mind, louder than he knows it actually is. He can't  _think_. 

"I think it's already dead," Enjolras replies, "Fuck, how do you -- fuck!"

Joly gets the foot free, Patria snorts and rights herself, relieved of the weight. She moves to stand by Honour, who gives her a flat look but doesn't move as Grantaire nearly gets beheaded, a violent sweep of the white walker's arm going wide.

"You can't kill it!" Joly yells, "You have to--" but his words are swallowed up by the sound of the battle raging all around them. He thinks, abruptly, of Bossuet and Musichetta. "You have to--"

The White Walker gets a hand in the front of Enjolras's cloak, hauls him off the ground. Joly sees him wince as the material pulls tight over the arrow wound in his chest. His fingers scrabble for purchase as he struggles to breathe.

Then Grantaire is there, bringing his sword up, as hard as he can, into the White Walker's back. It breaks through bone and ice, lodges itself where a heart should be. Freezes. Cracks. Explodes. 

"The fuck--" says Grantaire, as Enjolras is thrown carelessly to one side. The shards of the sword land around them as the White Walker slams Grantaire's head into a nearby tree. 

An arrow sails over his shoulder, lodges itself in the White Walker's shoulder. It hisses as flame licks its way across its body, takes a step forwards to look for the archer when another whistles past, sinking itself into it's neck. 

Grantaire lands heavily on the snow, Joly scrabbles over to help him, only Enjolras gets there first, wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him up. Their eyes meet in the darkness, then they're blocked from view as Musichetta steps out of the shadows with another arrow notched. 

"Get going," she says, not looking at Grantaire or Enjolras. "Before I change my mind."

Bossuet follows her a second later, he manages a grim smile for Joly. There is a trickle of blood at his temple. "They need to know," he says, grim. "The South must realise."

Relief floods through Joly, a lessening of the weight on his shoulders ever since he had first brought Grantaire back to camp. His knees buckle and then straighten, he pulls at Honour and Patria frantically, leading them to Enjolras and Grantaire. 

"You must tell them," he says, not to Grantaire, but Enjolras, "About what is here, what is hiding in wait, what is coming for us all. They must realise. You cannot let them get South." The backdrop to his words is shrieks and inhuman sounds as Bossuet and Musichetta fight the creature. "You cannot."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Grantaire frown, but Enjolras just steps forwards. He clasps Joly's free hand with the one not holding the sword, promises, "I will." 

Then he pulls away, sheathing his sword and mounting Patria with practised ease. Grantaire follows a beat later, still frowning. "Joly--" he tries, but Joly just shakes his head. 

"No," he says, holding a hand to halt Grantaire's protests. "We will survive, we are an army, we have Mance. You must go."

Enjolras tugs on the reigns to turn Patria around, to head back to the Wall, to escape. Grantaire hesitates for a second, then does the same. No more words are spoken; Joly watches Enjolras and Grantaire go to the sound of battle, watches until they disappear into the darkness, then turns to face his own fate.


	14. Bahorel [interlude iv]

"I've got something for you."

Bahorel looks up from where he's separating out swords for the newest recruits, feels that familiar tug in his chest and the swell of relief that always comes with seeing the First Ranger alive and well.

He tempers it all down with a scowl that he's late, and a frown that says he's not interested in whatever he's brought with him (he is).  

Feuilly steps further into the pitiful room they call an Armoury, holding a cloth bag in one hand and a peace-offering in the other. Bahorel goes for the second, takes the wine cork out with his teeth and a long glug afterwards.  __

"Where'd you find wine North of the Wall?" he asks, though it can hardly be called wine, more like warm piss. Sometimes, it's all you get. He takes another swig.

"I may have come back via Mole's Town," Feuilly replies, taking the bottle back from him. The cloth bundle he puts down on the table next to the swords, it makes a strange chinking noise, drawing Bahorel's attention even as he tries to pretend it doesn't.

Luckily, he can hold a grudge far more firmly than curiosity. "And you just, what, figured there was no reason to tell us?" he asks, a little to short. "Jehan's been worried," he elaborates, looking away.

"Sure," says Feuilly, arching an eyebrow at him. "Jehan. I should go see him then, put his mind at ease."

"What's in the bag?" Bahorel asks abruptly, even as he hates himself for it. Giving in to Feuilly always comes too naturally, too easy. He nudges the edge of the cloth with his elbow. It falls away to reveal several arrow heads, a dagger, broken glass.

"I found it at the Fist of the First Men," Feuilly explains, taking another step towards him, closing the distance, "Someone must have buried it all there, years ago. Like they wanted it to be found."

Bahorel picks up the arrow heads, runs his thumb along the edge. The material feels brittle, like it could shatter at any moment, and cold. It takes a moment for him to come up with the name. "Dragonglass." He's never seen it before, much less worked with it. Though there are rumours...

"At the Fist?" he clarifies, glancing up at Feuilly. Instead of looking at the weapons, Feuilly is watching him, calm, thoughtful. He reaches for the wine bottle again instead of meeting his eyes.

"Yeah," replies Feuilly, "A couple of the men wanted to just leave them there, but it felt wrong. And with all the stories Jehan has been telling recently..."

"Old Wives Tales," says Bahorel, firm, "You know that. There's nothing out there but wildlings and the occasional dead person who doesn't quite stay dead. That's it. Nothing else, no monsters, no -- no  _Others_."

Feuilly shrugs. Bahorel envies him the ability to stay so calm in the face of things, be they real or not. His own temper flares, lashes out to catch others. There's a reason he wouldn't make a good Ranger: no patience. Feuilly being the First Ranger comes as naturally as breathing, he just  _is_.

He turns back to the items in the cloth, searches out the dagger. "What do you want me to do with them?"

"They were weapons, once. They should be again."

"Dragonglass is useless for swords," Bahorel replies, shaking his head. "It breaks too easily. Even if it's sharper than steel." He looks at the dagger again. "I can make something smaller, maybe. Less likely to break. I'll see what I can do."

He wraps the items back up again, folds the cloth over the top and carries them over to a cupboard he knows the Master-at-Arms won't use. When he returns, Feuilly has moved to sit on the edge of the table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Backlit by the lanterns, his red hair glows in the dark.  _Kissed by fire_ , Bahorel thinks. 

He takes what's left of the wine and downs it, places the bottle next to the swords on the table. His hand stays, not too far from Feuilly's closed one, resting. 

He's glad Feuilly's back, but that relief is also tinged with something else, the sense of foreboding he's had ever since Enjolras stopped showing up to training. 

"Did you find any sign of them?" he asks, looking up. Feuilly looks at him for a second, and then away. His mouth pulls tight at the corners.

"No," he says, "But also no sign of a struggle. Their trail disappears in the snow, it's impossible to tell where they went, or what happened. I don't know where they are."

Bahorel frowns. Whilst he hadn't been the biggest fan of Enjolras when he had first turned up, the man had grown on him, some innate sense of goodness seeming to radiate under all that fury and need to prove himself. But Grantaire -- Grantaire he had known for years, and it was Grantaire he truly worried for. He had gone North before, did it all the time, but never with someone else.

It's been long enough now that even Lamarque is starting to worry, though he disguised it in Feuilly's ranging party. They were officially out to see if they could find any signs of Mance's army, but the First Ranger had other instructions. 

The fact he found nothing troubles Bahorel more than dead bodies ever would. Nothing makes you wonder, nothing makes you think. 

His hand has shifted, Feuilly's presses against it, his thumb tracing carefully over his knuckles, reassuring. Bahorel sighs out a breath, and then pulls away. 

"Come on," he says, stepping back, "Jehan and the others will want to see that you're alive." He doesn't turn to see Feuilly's expression, heads straight for the door. Sometimes it's easier just to drink, to forget what's going on around them.

To not think at all about what might of been, or is. 


	15. Grantaire

They're almost back to the Wall when Grantaire finally brings it up. 

Enjolras has been distant for their entire journey, his gaze focused far away, on something else. Only occasionally does he show emotion, brief flickers of pain that come across his face when he twists his body too far, or Patria's hooves hit a notch in the ground. 

They spend their final night alone in the Haunted Forest, not far from Whitetree. 

Enjolras starts the fire whilst Grantaire sees to the horses, making sure they're secure, fed and watered. When he returns Enjolras is sat on the ground, knees drawn up almost to his chest, arms curved around them as he watches the flames. Beyond him, Grantaire can just make out the heart tree in the godswood, a flash of white in the darkness.  __

Enjolras shows no sign of hearing him approach, doesn't look up from his contemplation. He's likely to stay this way until they reach Castle Black, and then Grantaire knows he won't have chance to speak to him again, that these moments where it's just the two of them will be gone.

He decides he has nothing to lose. 

"So," he says, kicking up snow as he takes a seat next to him, "Are we going to talk about it?"

Enjolras blinks, slow, like drawing himself up through syrup. He tilts his head to look at Grantaire. "Do you want to?"

Something in Grantaire's chest twists; he knows it's probably better to forget that anything happened, that he didn't temporarily lose his mind and kiss a Lannister heir. 

But he's never been one for leaving things unsaid. 

"Yeah," he says, "Look, it was the heat of the moment, we were captured, I didn't think."

Enjolras nods, like it makes sense. "I understand." He pauses for a second, frowning, seeming to work himself up to his next question, "But do you not -- don't you regret it?" His eyes search Grantaire's as he speaks, bright in the darkness. 

"What? No, of course I don't. Why would I?"

"Because it's my fault," says Enjolras, frustrated, and that makes no sense at all. "If it weren't for me you would still --"

"It's not your fault," Grantaire cuts across him, not understanding where this is coming from. Sure, Enjolras had caused him to do it, with his stupid speech about being one of them and his damned pretty face but, "It was my choice."

"But don't you want it back?"

"Of course I don't want to take it b--- wait, what?"

"Your sword," says Enjolras, and Gods help him, he's serious. The kiss - as brief but heart-stopping as it had been - has obviously not weighed on his mind the same way it has on Grantaire's. "It was valyrian steel, you can't just replace it. Whoever gave it to you, it must have meant something."

Enjolras turns to face him fully then, reaches out to place a hand on his. "I'm sorry the wildlings have it. We'll get it back, somehow. I promise."

He's so far off the mark that Grantaire can't even speak. The disappointment crushes his windpipe, makes it hard to breathe. He tries to ignore the raw feeling at the back of his throat. "It's fine," he hears himself saying, as if from a distance. 

He pulls his hand from Enjolras's, gets to his feet. "It's  _fine_. I'm going to get more wood."

He turns and stalks off into the night, doesn't check to see if Enjolras is following him. The undergrowth covers his footsteps, branches tug at his cloak like claws, releasing him reluctantly with a stumble into the godswood. 

Immediately, everything is silent; a place out of time. He takes a breath, and closes his eyes. 

It's been a while since he came here, since he spoke to the old gods. He's not sure they've always been there for him, but they've always listened. He opens his eyes and treads carefully to the heart tree, red leaves crunching under his boots, and sits on one of the exposed roots, white, like bone. 

He's not sure how long he sits there, letting his thoughts drift, before he notices the crow, perched on one of the branches, head-cocked as it looks down at him. His lips half-curve, and he reaches out a hand. With a flutter of wings it jumps and lands on his finger, with a single caw.

With his free hand, he curves a finger, running his knuckle over its head. There's no message attached to its leg, but it's message enough. 

"Tell him I'll be home soon," he says. "He doesn't need to worry."

The crow ruffles its feathers again, claws digging into his skin as it takes flight. He watches it disappear into the night sky, a shadow across the moon, and when he looks back down, Enjolras is watching him. 

"I'm sorry," he says, and steps forward. The godswood seems to watch him, intrigued by this summer child, his hair as golden as the sun. The leaves of the heart tree continue to fall; red, like blood; red, like his Lannister armour; red, like the colour of his lips when they'd kissed. 

Grantaire stands slowly, the snow crunches under his boots. 

"I brought you out here," says Enjolras, "I convinced you to come North. I was the reason we got caught. I was at the edge of camp, so you weren't near your sword, when we escaped. I said the wrong thing, back there." He seems to realise where he is, and stops. "I shouldn't be here."

It's true that the godswood doesn't suit him; it's too quiet, too melancholy. The old gods don't fit Enjolras, but then, few things do. He carves his own path. 

But he's trying. 

And he's -- "Are you  _nervous_?" Grantaire asks suddenly, surprising himself with the realisation. "You're never nervous. Why are you nervous?"

Colour warms Enjolras's cheeks. "You just stormed off," he says, "And I didn't know where you were. I thought you had--" He cuts himself off. 

"You thought I had what?"

"I thought you'd gone back to the Wall without me!" it explodes out of Enjolras, a mixture of anger and fear and frustration. "I thought you'd -- that it's not far now, so you'd just gone."

Grantaire blinks, and asks, "Why would I leave you?"

Silence fills the forest after his words. The faintest of breezes. They're completely alone and yet, it doesn't feel that way. Warmth seeps through Grantaire's skin, to his bones. 

"I don't know anything about you," says Enjolras, quiet, "And I'm sorry for that, too."

Grantaire's lips half-curve. He's not used to frustrated Enjolras - at least, not in this way. Not because of  _him._ "So why didn't you ask?"

Enjolras blinks, and frowns, like this is a completely new concept. Grantaire fights back his grin, and steps back to the heart tree, gestures for Enjolras to sit down next to him. After a pause, he does, still looking unsure. 

"So what do you--"

"Where did you get the sword?" Enjolras asks abruptly, then tenses. 

Grantaire glances across at him, and then tilts his head back, to look up into the tree. "My earliest memory is coming here, to the Wall. With a woman I don't remember. She was dark-haired, I don't think she was happy. She held my hand with her own, it was cold. It's funny, that after the fact, all you can remember are the little details."

He's tried, but her face eludes him. It's a blur he can't remember, indistinct. It feels like a failure, the oldest one he knows. "She approached Lamarque himself, at Castle Black. Said that she wanted me to be here, that she couldn't look after me." He only remembers snatches of conversation, brief moments. A six-year-old's memory is rarely clear. "He said no."

And why would he? The Wall was no place for a boy. "She begged and pleaded, but he held fast. Then she gave him the sword." Lamarque had listened then, that stern face showing surprise, and Grantaire had been ushered from the room by the Maester.

"I assume it has some sort of significance," he continues, "But I don't know what. It's only ever been good for killing. I never saw that woman again."

He's never been without the sword ever since, but missing it feels more like failing Lamarque. "I don't know what it means," he says, looking at Enjolras again, "It's a relic of before. The Wall is my home. It got me in, but it doesn't keep me there. I don't care what happened to the sword, I never have. She bartered it easily enough for my life, I traded it for ours."

Enjolras has watched him the entire time, not once tried to interrupt, or offer his thoughts. Grantaire wonders what will come next, now he knows. His story has gaps, he knows that, veiled truths. But rather than call him on it, Enjolras just smiles. "Thank you," he says, "For telling me."

They spend their last night together under the heart tree, watching the snow fall. Enjolras tells him about Casterly Rock, and his father.

In the morning, they return to the Wall.


	16. Enjolras

"White Walkers," Javert says, voice flat. 

He turns his head to look down the table at Lamarque, his expression causing Enjolras to curl his hands into fists at his sides. 

"You can't believe this - this  _southener_."

"No," Lamarque agrees, looking not at Javert, but Enjolras himself. "I can't."

For a second his eyes flicker to the space next to Enjolras, the shadow missing at his shoulder. Since they returned to the Wall, Grantaire hasn't been anywhere near him, spends his time doing patrols and training. The absence makes something itch, just under the surface of Enjolras's skin. __

Though he hasn't seen Grantaire, he knows he must have had some sort of hand in this meeting. There's no way that the Lord Commander would have agreed to meet with Enjolras over something like this - something they so clearly don't believe in.

They'd listened to Grantaire's report about Mance's army, had made few preparations and assured themselves that the Wall alone would keep them safe, but Enjolras knows that the army isn't the true threat, isn't what will destroy them all. 

All he can think about is how Joly had looked, the fear in his eyes when he'd told them to run. 

"Why would I lie?" asks Enjolras, persisting, "What do I have to gain?"

Not for the first time, he wishes Grantaire were here. He, at least, Lamarque and the others would be more inclined to listen to; one of their own. 

"Who ever knows what a Lannister is up to?" Javert asks, dismissive. Next to him, the Maester stirs, frowning, but doesn't say anything. Jehan hovers just behind him, scribing notes. He keeps glancing at Enjolras when he thinks he's not looking, curiosity written over his face. It's the same look he's been sending him ever since he and Grantaire returned. 

"Trying to save you, is what," Enjolras snaps, before he can think to be wiser. "There's an army heading straight for you, but behind them is something  _worse_. If you kill yourselves fighting Mance then there's going to be no one left to defend the Wall from the Others chasing after them--"

"So what, we should just let Mance walk on in?"

The sound of feet pounding on the stairs interrupts them, someone running up as fast as they can. Enjolras turns just in time to see the door fly open, feel his heart stutter as Grantaire appears in the doorway. 

"Who the _fuck_ ," says Grantaire, "Brought dead bodies here?"

\- - - 

Grantaire fills him in as they descend the tower steps again at a run. A scouting party of Mance's was spotted near Whitetree the previous day, Feuilly sent out a party to stop them, only two of his men were lost in the process. They were brought back for proper funeral rites, only for some reason or another, it never happened. 

"Incompetent fucking--" Grantaire continues his rant, emerging into the training ground with his new sword bared. It's a plain one of Bahorel's from the armoury, well-worn and beaten, but at his side is something much newer-looking, a dagger made of a metal Enjolras has never seen before. 

It's late at night, most of the men are asleep or up on the Wall watching for the army. Grantaire had come for the only reinforcements he knew were still awake; those meeting Enjolras up in the tower. It's only Enjolras who follows him back down. 

"I don't know where they are," says Grantaire, thrusting a glass lantern into his hand, the candle inside already lit. "I heard the screams, first."  He's organised as he moves, checking on some barrels, finding another lit lantern for himself, far more composed than he should be, with two reanimated dead bodies on the loose.

"This is where you've been," Enjolras says, as realisation dawns.

Grantaire gives him a look, like he really should have known better, and then shrugs. "Talking to Lamarque and the others," he says after a pause, "It won't change anything. Never has."

"So you just started arranging things instead," says Enjolras, "The fire, the traps."

Again, Grantaire just shrugs.

Enjolras doesn't know what to say to that, doesn't know whether to be annoyed Grantaire assumed he couldn't get through to Lamarque, or impressed that he thought ahead. He doesn't have much time, when there's a shriek from across the yard, towards the stables.

He wants to ask why Grantaire didn't involve him, why he didn't ask Enjolras if he wanted to help. Why he let him think he didn't care, that he'd forgotten everything that happened in the North, when clearly he hadn't at all.

Honour and Patria are stabled next to each other, they look across in recognition when Enjolras and Grantaire enter. Grantaire holds a hand out to silence Honour without thinking, his head tilted towards where the shriek had come from. 

There's no noise at all. 

Then something wraps itself around Enjolras's neck. 

He lashes out, twisting his body and swinging the latern in his hand around. It slips from his grip, lands on the hay-covered floor, flames flickering inside, but the glass holds. The wight stares at Enjolras with no recognition at all, reaches for his throat again. 

Grantaire appears at his shoulder then - where he should be, where he hasn't been since they returned, where he should _always_  be - sword drawn as he lunges forwards. 

What follows is a blur, from that point. Enjolras acts on instinct, trying to keep both the horses safe and defend himself from the persistent attacks. The stable master lies in a pool of rapidly-spreading blood near the door. 

It happens entirely by accident. One moment Grantaire is chopping the head from one of the wights and then the other has Enjolras on the floor. He kicks and lashes out, his sword fallen for his grasp. 

His fingers find the nearest thing, the only thing, the glass lantern, and with a last burst of strength he pulls it over and slams it into the side of the wight's face. Glass shatters, shards piercing straight into his skin, the flame inside leaping for freedom . Instantly, the wight starts to scream, its body convulsing. Enjolras shoves it bodily away but it's too late, the fire  _burns_.

The flame licks along his skin, crawls higher up his face and to his hair. He can smell the charred flesh, feel the bitter acrid taste at the back of his throat. He coughs and staggers forwards, feels his eyelashes sizzle and burn. And the pain, Gods, it's worse than anything he's ever felt.

Then suddenly there is movement, there are hands. Rough, cool, like a shock of ice as they grab the shattered lantern, as they tear it away from his skin and throw it across the stable. 

Enjolras chokes out another breath, struggles to his knees, bile rising in the back of his throat. It feels like the skin of his face is twisting, falling, but the hands, still the cool hands. Why aren't they hurt?

They frame his face, hold him still, keep him from toppling over as he sways. He can smell something charred and knows it's him, can still feel the pain of the fire, but all he can see is ice. Blue eyes, familiar ones, looking at him in concern as someone yells for snow.

The hands are cold, and when they shift, Enjolras realises they bare no marks, no memory of the shattered lantern and the fire within. The whole world shifts around him again, everything spins. 

"Why aren't you burnt?" he asks, and the last thing he sees before darkness engulfs him is Grantaire.


	17. Enjolras

"Don't kill him."

Enjolras wakes to a figure perched on the end of his bed, to a crossbow pointed directly at his heart. The figure who holds it is little more than a boy, still far from a man. But Gavroche's aim is true, and his grip his sure. 

Enjolras knows, should Gavroche decide to fire, he will die. 

He takes a breath, hears it rattle in his still-healing throat. The skin of his face on the left side pulls awkwardly as he replies, "Where is he?”

Gavroche’s frown deepens and the crossbow tip presses against the bared skin of Enjolras’s chest, half-wrapped in bandages. His whole body aches, unfamiliar. He doesn’t know what day it is. 

The sky outside the window past Gavroche’s shoulder is black, snow falls and builds on the window ledge. A single solitary candle flickers on the table next to the bedside, no warmth at all. The North is cold.

Gavroche doesn’t reply, doesn’t seem willing to talk about anything other than the topic at hand. “I’m not going to kill him,” Enjolras says to calm him, breaks off with a cough when his throat  _burns_.

_— flames flicker behind his eyes — they’re everywhere — glass — he’s burning, he’s on fire, he’s dying —_

Gavroche is still distrusting, the crossbow bolt pulls back only an inch. Enjolras doesn’t have to ask to know who they’re talking about, who Gavroche doesn’t want him to kill. Somehow, it’s clear that Gavroche  _knows_ , that the most closely-guarded secret at the wall is information he holds, despite the loyalties of his parents.

"Telling your father is killing him," Gavroche replies, stubborn. "Are you going to do that?"

“I’m not going to tell my father anything,” Enjolras replies, and wonders why it feels like a lie. 

The flames had engulfed him, he should be dead, and yet - and yet - Grantaire had been there, somehow, had reached through the flames, and his hands had felt like  _ice_. The dread settles in Enjolras’s stomach, heavy, like coal.

He looks up at Gavroche, too young and inexperienced to be playing at politics and deception, and grows irritated that Grantaire chose to include him in his secret, to tell him who he is. It’s too dangerous a thing to know. 

It does not occur to him that Gavroche worked it out by himself.

“Liar,” says Gavroche, and the bolt presses against his skin again. 

For the briefest of seconds, Enjolras’s heart stops.

“Put the crossbow down, Gavroche.” Jehan’s voice is calm, almost cheerful, but there’s a current underneath it. He closes the door behind himself and places a tray down on the table next to Enjolras’s bed, a wash basin, rag and mirror.

Gavroche scowls, but obeys. He sends one last glare at Enjolras as he unhinges the crossbow and jumps down from the bed to make room for Jehan. He’s shot up another few inches, lanky and insolent, wearing the black robes of a crow, but not their words.

Enjolras moves his gaze across to Jehan, who smiles and asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Enjolras admits, and gives in to the tickling cough that’s been crawling up his throat ever since he woke. The coughs shake his whole body, causing him to curve forwards, Jehan runs a hand up his back soothingly until they subside. 

“Why can’t I move my face properly?” he asks, feels the skin at the side of his mouth pull tight.

Jehan’s expression is unreadable, which if anything, makes Enjolras feel worse. Jehan is an open book, he wears his emotions on his sleeve. He finds it difficult to lie. Rather than answer, he reaches for the blurred and cracked mirror on the tray, lifting it up for Enjolras to see. 

Gavroche shifts restlessly from one foot to another, he’s frowning, uncomfortable. “I have to go,” he says, abrupt, gone before Enjolras can even make sense of what Jehan is showing him in the mirror. 

He doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, at first. The hair is golden, blond, if a little unkempt and long, but then he hasn’t really been interested in keeping himself presentable, at the wall. It’s the least of his worries, when there’s an army of the dead coming—

_— a body, reanimated — coming towards him in the stables and fire all around, consuming, burning — something on his face, twisting, melting —_

His own hands grip hold of the sheets on either side of him, his knuckles go white.

The left side of his face is burned from crown to chin, the skin half-wrapped in bandages. The burns are barely healing, painful. Seeing them makes his vision swim. That can’t be his face, that’s not what he’s really seeing, the mirrored glass is old, faded with years — showing him a face that isn’t his.

Movement behind the mirror, Jehan, a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

\- - - 

Grantaire is gone, when Enjolras has finally recovered enough to leave the broken tower. 

His face aches less, he’s getting used to speaking through a mouth where his lips don’t quite move how he’d like. He still wakes sometimes in the night, sweating and on the tail end of a scream, feeling the flames all over again, encompassing him, but it’s becoming less. 

He hasn’t looked in a mirror since. There aren’t many at the Wall - a vanity pointless for Men of the Night’s Watch - a small mercy, considering the face which looks back doesn’t feel like his. 

Winter has fully settled whilst he’s been recovering, his boots crunch on the snow as he walks. His red armour is discarded, given to Bahorel to break apart and reforge into whatever will be necessary to face the coming threat. His father would no longer judge him worthy of wearing it, it belongs to a man he’s no longer sure that he is. 

His robes are black, like the others. Under the night sky he’s just another shadow crossing the courtyard to the commonhall. He no longer needs anyone to guide him, walks the towers and keep around Castle Black like his home. 

His only other visitor whilst he had been recuperating had been the Lord Commander himself. He had told him how a scouting party led by Feuilly had gone to the Frostfangs, seen the army Grantaire and he had reported, and now they were preparing all that they could. 

Too little, too late. 

Enjolras knows what they should do, the only way they’ll get out of this alive - he remembers what he saw fighting Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, the inhuman figure of ice - but he doubts the Night’s Watch wants to hear about peace. 

He also knows that Lamarque is telling him this, so that he won’t feel so much discontent towards them. So he won’t tell his father how badly burned he is. They’re preparing for a war with the wildlings, and he should be focused on that. 

When Lamarque had told him Grantaire had gone North of the Wall again scouting, learning information for the coming battle, he had looked like he expected Enjolras to be surprised. When Enjolras had not replied, Lamarque had hesitated, and then added, “I do not think you are your father. At the Wall, we do not care who a man is, or was, only what he does. I think you understand this.”

Enjolras still does not know if Lamarque was talking about himself, or Grantaire, in that moment. 

He doesn’t know what to think at all, of a man with a valyrian steel sword and no name, whose hands didn’t blister when he touched fire, who had eyes the colour of ice and didn’t look at him, the way everyone else did. 

These thoughts curl through his mind as he walks, chin tucked down into his fur collar against the bitter wind. The blast of hot air from the commonhall when he steps inside is a warmth that spreads like syrup to his bones. A few men look up at his entrance, but they know him now, and things have changed. His entrance is nothing at all like it was that first time. Everyone has scars.

He heads not to the main table, but one of the side ones, where he finds Bahorel, Jehan and Feuilly already eating. There is a space left ready for him. He steps over the bench and sits down, picks up a tankard, and joins the conversation. 


	18. Cosette [interlude v]

Marius watches Cosette walk through the yard, between the dead bodies, direwolf as always at her side. Her expensive cloak trails through the mud and snow, but she doesn’t seem to care about either, her violet eyes focused entirely on each and every face she comes across, as if committing them to memory. 

“They will have funerals,” she says. Her voice is quiet, but in the silence surrounding Winterfell her voice catches, and holds. 

“Your men only, I assume?” one of her retinue asks, rhetorical. These people faced untold horrors at the hands of Ramsey Bolton’s rule. “We will deal with the Bolton supporters—”

“All of them.”

Again, the silence holds, broken only by the restless moving of the few horses they have still alive. Their riders hold the reins tight, despite their wounds, their exhaustion. It has been a long battle. They are all listening to Cosette. 

“My lady, these men allied with the people who saw your father beheaded—”

Cosette’s look could cut ice. 

She points a gloved hand to the nearest body, little more than a child, only thirteen years old, at most. “This boy did not swing the sword which cut off his head,” she says, there is emphasis on the word  _boy_. “He followed the orders of his liege lord. I will not hold boys accountable for the follies of men.”

She looks again at the bodies strewn across the yard, those who took part in the fighting, before it was too late and the winner declared. Senseless deaths, born of desperation. “They will all have funerals,” she tells Winterfell, firm. 

The man nods, begins to give orders to whats left of the serving staff to begin clearing the yard, preparing the dead bodies for what’s next. What’s left of Cosette’s army begin to see to their own injured soldiers, setting up makeshift camps where they can. The Eyrie had supplied them well with men for the assault, but still they are exhausted, their ranks grown thin, even with the additional men they gained from the North itself whilst on the road, when it became clear what her intention was to be. 

“Where shall they be buried?” asks a septa.

Cosette glances across at the woman only for a second. “They will be burned.”

The septa startles. “What? But, my Lady—”

So she has listened to Combeferre then, thinks Marius. Combeferre, and his stories of what Enjolras has discovered in the North. An army of wildlings, banded together under yet another King, and beyond that something worse. 

He has discussed it with Cosette many times, whether it can all be true, or Enjolras is straining to find some meaning, up on a frozen Wall of ice. He would not be the first noble lord to lose his mind, after being sent to a place so dim and dark. 

Cosette had been told stories as a young child in the chambers of Winterfell, of pale spiders and men who came back from the dead. She hadn’t said anything to Marius about whether or not she believed them, but it’s clear that some superstitions have held firm.

Now that the fighting is over, now that the Stark banner flies again over Winterfell, Marius wonders what will happen to Cosette. There are no Starks left, Enjolras’s father saw to that, and King’s Landing. She is still a Dayne, adopted by Valjean after her mother’s tragic death and the Thenadier’s betrayal.

Yet, “Winterfell is my home,” she had told him once, in one of the many towers atop the Eyrie, her beautiful face softened by sadness as she looked out across the hills to the North. 

Marius wonders if, even then, she had been planning to take it back with Combeferre. If the ravens he had sent for her were carrying promises of good men and alliances and peace. 

“Marius!”

He looks up at the sound of his name, sees Cosette smiling across the yard at him. As always, his heart clenches when she speaks to him. There is an old man with her, gruff around the edges, hair whitened almost to snow. A heavy metal chain hands around his neck.

“We are discussing who will be lord,” Cosette informs Marius, when he approaches, “Now that the Boltons are gone. Maester Landwin advises Lord Karstark.”

“It is true the Karstarks have been loyal to your family for generations,” Marius agrees. This is what Combeferre sent him to Cosette for; to advise. “And there is a definite blood link. They are the closest in terms of relation. Lord Karstark would hold Winterfell well, I should think.”

“Bollocks,” says another voice across the yard.

Marius turns at once, his hand already going to the sword he keeps at his side. Cosette places a hand over his to still him, leaves it there even when the brash woman approaches. 

She’s dressed in armour, splattered with blood. It’s clear that none of it is hers. The crest is a white sunburst on black. She looks Cosette over from head to toe and says, “Lord Karstark has no claim on this place. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“Lady Karstark,” Cosette greets with a genuine smile. The older woman had created quite a stir, when she turned up at the Eyrie and announced that she was here to find out when they were taking Winterfell back from ‘the fucking tosspots’ currently there. 

“There’s no Stark I recognise but you,” Lady Karstark says. “Name be damned.”

A few of the other nobles and lords who came with them nod. Marius feels Cosette’s hand tighten over his. 

“I already told the South to go fuck themselves once, I’m not about to go crawling back now.” 

Then Lady Karstark goes to one knee. There’s not even a pause, as the others around her go down too. As each man bends to this girl of summer light and gentleness, who treats everyone as equal, even if they fought against her.

“You are my Queen,” Lady Karstark says, “Queen in the North.”

“Queen in the North,” echoes the man next to her, the one next to him. 

The name picks up and passes around the entire yard, until Winterfell itself is filled with the sound, the declaration of a queen. Cosette stands at the centre, looking surprised, no more so than when Marius detaches his own hand from hers and goes to his knee next to her. Her violet eyes startle to him, wide.

He was sent originally to spy on Cosette for Combeferre, but that went out of the window the moment he laid eyes on her; he has loved this girl from the moment they met, would give anything to ensure she is happy. She will make a wonderful queen, kind and just, and there is no one he would rather swear allegiance to.

"Queen in the North,” he says, looking up at her, and crosses his arm over his chest, palm resting against his heart.


	19. Courfeyrac

Combeferre arrives before the ravens. 

Courfeyrac will never understand how he does it. But then, a man like Combeferre has to have his secrets, or risk people thinking he has no worth.

Combeferre steps down from his horse easily, never having had attendants to rely on and grow used to. He is already seeing his horse to the stables when Courfeyrac slides down from his own in a much more sedate fashion, scowling when his boots hit the snow and immediately become sodden.

He fucking  _hates_  the North. 

Combeferre grins at him when Courfeyrac joins him in the stables, offers no help as he strokes a hand down his horse’s flank, not even when he sees Courfeyrac, clearly struggling with the reins and unfamiliar fixtures. 

When both horses are finally safe and secure, they look up to the main hall, as if on cue. No one has been told of their arrival, but give it a few hours, and the ravens will start to flock with the news they are preempting. Dark wings, dark words. Combeferre is determined to beat them, strides ahead now not to the main hall, but the common one, information told to him in a letter once from Enjolras, never forgotten. 

Courfeyrac follows at a more sedate pace, wrapping his cloak tight and taking in this place at the edge of the world. There is no colour, everything is dark. Enjolras spoke of how plain and decaying everything is in his letters, but it is nothing compared to seeing Castle Black in person. 

The nights are long and dark here, the opposite of Dorne, and Courfeyrac longs to see the sun again. 

Inside the hall they are greeted with a stir, various men of the Night’s Watch looking up in surprise at visitors. They’re not new recruits, that much is clear, but nor are they wearing house crests or armour. There is restless murmuring. 

Combeferre is the one who identifies the Lord Commander at the main table and heads straight for him, whilst Courfeyrac pauses to look around. 

Enjolras is not here. 

Combeferre and the Lord Commander talk, low voices, as a man with flame-red hair frowns next to them. He’s obviously of some importance too but what, Courfeyrac is not sure. On the red-haired man's other side is a sturdier man, gruff, he glares down at Courfeyrac like he has personally offended him just by existing. Or perhaps he is just jealous of Courfeyrac's head of curly, copper hair.

Courfeyrac grins. 

They’re invited to sit at the high table, to share in food and wine which is nothing at all like the luxuries they are used to, in the south. But then Combeferre is not rich, and Courfeyrac likes to travel, and between them they much prefer good conversation. 

The red-haired man is Feuilly, the First Ranger. The surly man with him is Bahorel, Master-at-Arms, recently promoted after the previous one died in an attack they all seem to want to talk little about. There is an edge in the hall, an air of unease, which makes Courfeyrac careful to drink less wine than he is known for. He is always armed, can take on most of the men here without too much trouble, but it is not his own life he worries about. 

Courfeyrac’s true skill is not with the spear, but diplomacy, making everyone think that he’s harmless. And so he talks, and shares stories, makes jokes that cause even the Lord Commander to break a smile. It’s second nature to make those around him relax, to think he is just a drunken Dornishman, even as Combeferre’s leg presses against his under the table, worried. There is still no sign of Enjolras in the hall.

And no word, not for 6 weeks and counting. 

Courfeyrac is in the middle of a joke, gesturing widely with his arm (careful, of course, to slosh his drink a little over the table) when the door to the common hall opens. 

There is a brief gush of wind as the cloaked figure enters, then the door is pushed shut again behind him. Snow covers his cloaked head and shoulders, flakes catching in the golden strands of his hair when he pushes back his hood. He wears the black robes of a man of the Night’s Watch, indistinguishable from the rest, it takes a moment to notice the sword strapped to his side with the lion's head, the proud jaw, the very aura he seems to radiate. 

The other men in the room seem to acknowledge his entrance, a few murmurs are made in greeting. Enjolras stops to talk to a few, exchanges words, as a space is made for him at one of the tables, next to a man with a long braid of red hair. It is far from the main table, not a seat you would give to the son of one of the most powerful families in the seven kingdoms.

Courfeyrac catalogues it all between one blink and the next, each movement, each reaction, then the golden lion of House Lannister passes by a wall sconce, and the flickering flames illuminate the left side of his face. 

Courfeyrac takes in a sharp breath on instinct, and Enjolras’s eyes snap to his across the room. 

Combeferre’s leg presses harder against Courfeyrac's under the table, a warning. Courfeyrac returns his attention to the joke, covers his momentary slip as drunken slur and loss of focus. But not before he sees the displeased curve to Enjolras’s lips, before Enjolras's good breeding and training from the moment he was born sees him wipe it all away in an instant. If Courfeyrac were not the great observer of people he is, he would have missed the change in his expression entirely. 

“Enjolras,” the Lord Commander says. There is no Ser, no Lannister, as if he was just another person as any. 

Enjolras turns to look instead at the Lord Commander. There is a pause and then he walks towards them, snow melting to droplets of water on his cloak, glinting in the flames as as he passes. At the high table he looks again at Courfeyrac, once, a glance from underneath his eyelashes, soon gone. 

This is not the proud young lord who left King’s Landing, vicious and snarling and spitting. The one who had cried out for revolution, and been banished to the edge of the world as a result. The beautiful young man they had written songs about, and all the ladies of King’s Landing had dreamed of marrying.

This is a man who stands tall, who has been scarred by some event and yet come out the other side. Who looks at the Lord Commander as if he is equal, but bows his head slightly with respect, and holds his tongue.

“We have visitors from the South,” Lamarque says, gesturing to his side at Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “Perhaps you could show the Prince to his rooms? He has drank quite a bit.”

Courfeyrac spills a little wine to show just how drunk he is, slumped slightly in his chair, though there’s no need. He, Enjolras and Combeferre have been perfecting this act for years. Since they were young boys bored with polite conversations at court.

Combeferre rises first. “My liege,” he says, offering his arm to Courfeyrac. He nods at Lamarque, Feuilly and Bahorel to say goodnight, as he leads a heavily listing Courfeyrac out to the yard. Courfeyrac watches Enjolras's back, as he leads them away from prying eyes and ears. 

Once the cool air hits them it is like old times, sneaking out of a party to spend time together in King’s Landing, wanting nothing more than time with each other, careless in that way only children are, invulnerable. They had never cared for political intrigue, for impressing others with flowery words and conversation. They had only wanted this: the three of them, with no one else to interfere.

Only now they are older, if not wiser, and Enjolras pulls his hood up to cover his features again as the wind blows.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, reaching out, all pretense of drink gone from his bones. His fingertips barely brush the edge of Enjolras’s hood when Enjolras pulls back, drops his gaze. “What happened?”

“It’s not important,” Enjolras says, though it so clearly is. 

“Do we need to kill anyone?” Combeferre asks, and wins a smile for his words.

“No. R— it was dealt with,” Enjolras says. They all ignore the slip. “Why are you here?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest to hold in warmth. It is bitterly cold, even in the square of light thrown across the snow from the window of the common hall. How has Enjolras been able to stand it? Living in this place with no light or life?

Courfeyrac’s throat sticks.

“There is news from King’s Landing,” Combeferre says, his voice grave. There is no other way to say this. “Your father is dead.”


	20. Jehan

“What the fuck is the point of being Lord if no one will send me a fucking army when I fucking need one?” 

Jehan pushes the door to Courfeyrac’s room open to see Enjolras stood in the centre, furious. He’s surrounded by rolls of parchment, new and old, half of them opened, the rest discarded. Combeferre and Courfeyrac look on, two bodies bracketing his wrath. 

Carefully, Jehan closes the door again behind him.

Courfeyrac sits back in the one chair in the room, his legs stretched out long in front of the fire. He’s the only one to look up at the sound of the door closing, and gives Jehan a brief smile in greeting. Jehan smiles back, and adds the letters in his hands to the toppling piles on the desk.

“You’re the Lord of Casterly Rock now,” Combeferre says, with the air of someone who’s had to say this several times, over the last few weeks. “They expect you to take up your father’s position as Hand of the King.”

The first ravens arrived not long after Combeferre and Courfeyrac, offering condolences for Enjolras’s loss, Lords and Ladies quick to say that they have always liked him, despite saying nothing when his father banished him to the North.

Enjolras has returned each letter with a demand for men, well-equipped, well-trained and sent to the Wall. He asks his father’s old alliances to prove their loyalty to him by defending the realm.

They have all, every one, made excuses.

“I’d be a terrible Hand,” Enjolras is saying.

Jehan sees Courfeyrac smile, at that. “True.” Enjolras doesn’t have the patience or the subtlety to be a good Hand of the King, to watch and listen and advise. People are inspired by him, will follow him into battle, but that’s not the job of the Hand. “There’s only one of us in this room who would be able to guide another man to greatness and—”

“ _Regardless_ ,” Combeferre speaks over Courfeyrac, with a quelling look that speaks of arguments long-past, “They won’t swear loyalty to you and pay their respects until you go south, until you’re seen to be doing what they want. No one’s going to send an army north to the Wall against the threat of people they don’t even really think exist. For years the only people who have come here are criminals and lesser sons who don’t matter.”

Combeferre hesitates, and glances across at Jehan, one of those lesser sons. “Sorry,” he offers, too late for it to be truly sincere.

Jehan shrugs, he knows full-well why he was sent to the Wall. “No harm caused.” Taking the opportunity, now that attention is focused on him, he looks to Enjolras and says, “Some more ravens arrived.”

Enjolras’s eyes widen for a second, the briefest flicker of hope. Jehan shakes his head minutely,  _not Grantaire._  It is two months now, and nothing, no word to say whether he’s even still alive.

Enjolras scowls. “Fuck these fucking letters!”

It’s the angriest Jehan has ever seen him, he is impressed. There’s something very terrible about Enjolras’s anger, so barely withheld. Jehan is used to people sending the bare minimum to the Wall, to surviving on a fraction of what they would have had decades ago. He’s resigned. Enjolras sees it as an injustice.

Enjolras frowns and appears to pull his thoughts back together. “What about Cosette? She’s Queen—”

“No reply.”

Enjolras did not initially want to send her a letter, had been talked into it only when his second round of letters to his father's vassal lords, were once again returned with pleasantries and apologies and even, to his horror and Courfeyrac’s utter amusement, some marriage offers. He’d grown desperate.

“Your father was instrumental in the death of hers,” Combeferre says, not gently. Jehan has grown to appreciate his blunt honesty. He likes it when words are not wasted. “I do not think that she will forgive that, so easily. Lannisters and Starks do not have the best histories.”

“It’s not me she’s helping,” Enjolras counters. “It’s the Wall. It’s the  _realm_. The North will be the first to bare the brunt of an invasion, what’s the point of her being queen if her kingdom is destroyed by the Long Night?”

“She never wanted to be queen,” Courfeyrac says, a prince by birth. He is nothing and everything Jehan expected, from the wild tales of the Prince of Dorne. The warm golden son. “And she was in the Eyrie for a long, long time, before she retook her father's home. Who is to say she doesn’t take after old Tully, and wall herself up in Winterfell to wait it all out? The place has withstood worse.”

Enjolras looks like he’s trying very hard not to start smashing things, his jaw clenched tight. He is quite a sight, even when angry. The kind of old hero they wrote songs about, burning with righteousness. 

Jehan pulls his cloak tighter and dares venture into this conversation of old friends, “The Wall has stood for longer.”

All three turn to look at him, surprised, it’s clear they forgot he was still there.

“Meaning?” asks Courfeyrac, arching an eyebrow. 

“When Mance’s army comes, it doesn’t matter how many men they have - or giants. They still have to scale the Wall, and wildlings have been dying whilst attempting that for years. Even if he mounts a full assault with an army, we’ve got the higher ground. They may outnumber us, but most of them will die in the attempt.”

“It’s not the wildlings I’m worried about,” Enjolras replies, distracted. “Grantaire—” he cuts himself off, clears his throat and tries again: “There’s something worse behind them. If we die fighting off the wildlings, there will be no one to defend against what comes  _after_.”

“It’s the best we have,” Jehan replies, twisting his hands through the fabric of his cloak. He’s seen Bahorel working overtime, to get as many shields and swords made as he can, playing around with the dragonglass Feuilly returned with, trying to carve it into something resembling a weapon. He’s seen the recruits, training day after night to be ready, most of them too thin and too small to be of any use. The coming winter is harsh and food stocks are low, they can’t build an army overnight. The Wall is their only true hope, against what is to come.

“I’ve heard of worse plans,” Courfeyrac, the only one of them to have seen any real warfare, says. “I have also heard of cutting your losses and going somewhere warm, somewhere where they don’t care at all about the Seven Kingdoms and whoever has declared himself King or Queen this time. I hear Braavos is wonderful, this time of year—”

Footsteps on the stairs distract Jehan’s attention. He turns his head as the door to the tower opens and someone enters in a flurry of snow.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Enjolras is the first to react. He turns on a knife point, some instinct seeming to tell him who it is before the person steps out into the light of the nearest torch. Enjolras crosses the room in seconds to curl his hands in the front of Grantaire’s cloak, dragging him forwards.

The kiss is fierce, almost angry.

Grantaire looks surprised, for the first few seconds, then he seems to come to his senses, gets his hands under Enjolras’s cloak to find his waist and pulls him close.

The kiss lasts for much longer than is polite.

Combeferre is the one to cough politely. Courfeyrac watches with something close to awe. He’s grinning, when Enjolras and Grantaire pull apart. “Well, now.”

Enjolras and Grantaire aren’t listening.

“Don’t leave again when I can’t follow,” Enjolras says, firm.

Grantaire looks stunned. His eyes flickers to the burn down the side of Enjolras’s face and he says something, low, almost hesitant. Jehan can't quite make it out. Enjolras frowns in response, but it’s not angry. It’s hard to tell, but it looks like he’s blushing. Grantaire reaches out tentatively, but Enjolras doesn’t flinch away when Grantaire presses fingertips to the burned skin.

Jehan turns his gaze away then, feeling he has looked for too long.

Courfeyrac continues to stare, but his expression is different now, fond. When he catches Jehan's eye, he arches an eyebrow as he says, “Do all the Night’s Watch greet each other so?”

“Depends on if we like you,” Jehan replies, and grins. 

It feels like the mood in the room has shifted completely. The anger and frustration receding, if only for a little while.

“You must be Grantaire,” Combeferre says, the epitome of polite. He smiles at Grantaire, who looks back at him suspiciously, not used to others greeting him so. Jehan still remembers the distrust Grantaire had shown him when they’d first met, all those years ago. Grantaire does not react fondly to nobility.

Only this time Enjolras stands with him, refusing to let him fade into the background. Seeing them both together makes Jehan’s thoughts jar, for a second, as he remembers what happened the last time they were together. The secret Enjolras, no doubt, has started to work out. The man who doesn’t burn.

A secret that Enjolras’s father would have killed for, now handed to the man taking his place.

Jehan’s smile slips from his face, but before Grantaire can even respond, there is a noise outside.

One horn blast. Two.

Then one long, echoing blast which seems to fill up time itself: _mount up._

“Shit,” says Grantaire, hand already going to the sword at his side. It’s not the standard one he left with, but his old one, Valyrian steel, thought lost when he and Enjolras escaped from the wildlings. “I thought I had more time.”

He turns his eyes on Enjolras, then, as he says, “Forgive me for this.”


	21. Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that time of year again! The show is back, and so is my muse for this au. Is anyone still reading this? I'm sorry updates take me so long. 
> 
> Fair warning: though this fic diverges quite a bit from canon, some plot points from books 4+ and seasons 5-6 may appear. If you don't wish to be spoilered for the fates of characters who you have worked out the les mis ones are based on, don't read. 
> 
> If not, read on!

The Lord Commander is dead.

Lamarque frowns even in death, his hands clasped together over his chest, holding the hilt of his sword. Even lying dead atop the funeral pyre, he is imposing, his body not dwarfed at all by the kindling.

Javert and a few others protested the burning, arguing that the body should be sent back to his family to be given the correct sendoff, as befitting a man of Larmque’s birth. But that was before the dead started coming back to life. 

Enjolras’s scarred face aches in the cold, he presses his lips together as he fights the urge of his body to give in and return to Castle Black to seek warmth. He crosses his arms over his chest, tucking his gloved hands in close against his body, but it makes no difference. His whole body is tired from the battle, from defending the Wall against the wildling attack. 

The snow has stopped drifting down, a small blessing, but the sky overhead is still ominous. 

At the top of Enjolras’s spine, between his shoulderblades, the feeling of being watched still persists. It has ever since Grantaire returned, having escaped from the wildling band with which he scaled the wall. The bodies of those who scaled with him, who attacked the castle and killed the Lord Commander, were burned earlier that morning.

Grantaire stands with the rest of his brothers, but apart. A few have not forgiven him for leaving to go to the wildlings, for returning with them. They think he is responsible for the Lord Commander’s death.

Jehan speaks for the Maester, who is old, frail and dying. Enjolras can’t quite hear his words, where he stands up on the walkway above the yard, but he can tell they are solemn and somber.

Enjolras looks beyond the funeral pyre to the wall, and up. To the towering structure which has stood for hundreds of years, and is the only thing between them and an army of wildlings. Other groups could be climbing the wall now; a group of brothers man the top, arrows notched and drawn, looking for any sign of wildlings breaking free of the Haunted Forest.

“And now his watch is ended.”

The words move from one brother of the Night’s Watch to another, murmured and repeated back as Grantaire takes hold of the lit torch from Jehan, places the flames against the kindling which make up the base of the pyre, then passes the torch on to Bahorel.

The wooden walkway Enjolras is stood on creaks as someone steps up next to him. Enjolras turns his head to see Combeferre. “And now his watch is ended,” says Combeferre.

“And now his watch is ended,” Enjolras returns. 

Combeferre rests his hands on the railing of the walkway, looking down at Lamarque as he burns. He wears black, like the Night’s Watch. He stood atop the wall, during the battle. He is not a good fighter - his skill is with words - but he has a head for strategy and has rubbed shoulders with some of the best tacticians in the seven kingdoms.

Courfeyrac took up arms the moment Grantaire arrived. His skill with the sword is good - better indeed, than most of the brothers of the Night’s Watch - but it was not until he got his hands on a spear from one of the invading wildlings that he became truly deadly.

It is unusual to see Combeferre without Courfeyrac, these days. Enjolras has long suspected that may be between them, but never asked. It is not his place. Courfeyrac’s amorous reputation as the Prince of Dorne is well-known, but not entirely fabricated. Enjolras has met many of his jilted lovers. 

“I received a letter from the Queen in the North,” says Combeferre.

 _He calls Cosette queen,_ Enjolras notes. Enjolras’s family would not agree. His nephew sits on the throne in King’s Landing, his claim to the realm absolute. 

Combeferre does not tell him the contents of the letter, simply draws the scroll from an inner pocket and hands it over to Enjolras. Enjolras glances across at him as he takes it, runs his thumb over the broken seal before unrolling. The direwolf of the Starks. 

He scans the contents of the scroll as the smell of burning fills the air. Ash and sparks catch on the wind, blowing across the yard towards them. 

Down on the ground, the brothers begin to disperse, returning to their assigned jobs. A war is coming. The wildlings’ attempt at a surprise attack from the south may have failed, but that will only make them more determined to succeed from the north. 

Grantaire and Jehan are the last two standing, watching as the flames lick up to consume Lamarque’s body. 

Jehan turns finally, rests a hand on Grantaire’s elbow. Grantaire continues to watch the funeral pyre as Jehan speaks, then Jehan crosses the yard to check on the Maester in his death bed. 

Grantaire turns finally, looks up over his shoulder to the walkway where Combeferre and Enjolras stand.

Enjolras rolls the scroll up again, tucks it into a pocket on the inside of his cloak. 

“A new Lord Commander must be elected,” says Combeferre, as Enjolras watches Grantaire walk away from the funeral pyre. His hair is ink black in the darkness. He is too far away for Enjolras to truly see his expression. It feels like an age and no time at all since their kiss. 

Enjolras can still feel the warmth of Grantaire’s body against his, the gasp as their lips had met for the first time. Grantaire had blinked startled blue eyes as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. 

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras turns from his thoughts to face Combeferre, recalls what he said last. “A new Lord Commander, yes,” he says. Then, after a beat, he realises the significance of such a thing. “We must be there. I have to see how it is done. If people can accept such a thing here, at the frozen edge of the world, surely they can accept it in the rest of the seven kingdoms.”

He feels a warmth sparking in him he hasn’t felt for a long time, that burning passion which saw him exiled to the wall in the first place. The Seven Kingdoms cannot survive as they are; they are already tearing each other apart. One King rises and another falls, again and again, a relentless cycle of ambition and pride.

Turning from the railing, Enjolras says, “We must be there.”

He sees Combeferre smile, as he turns to fall into step next to Enjolras. Where he should be. Enjolras has missed him: the realisation hits him suddenly, like an ache, worse than his scars. He can feel this down to his bones. 

He is not himself, he knows. Not without Combeferre and Courfeyrac. With them, he is the best version of himself. 

“They will vote in a new Lord Commander before night falls,” Combeferre says. “They must. They need someone to lead them through the night.”

Through the battle which could be the death of them all. 

Enjolras grips hold of the hilt of his sword at his side, as he descends the steps from the walkway to the yard. Many will want the power of Lord Commander, that is the allure of voting. Anyone can get that power, they do not have to be noble or from a good family. For the men of the Night’s Watch, bastard born, criminals and all, the power must be tempting. 

It is terrifying, the prospect of someone unknown, someone unworthy, becoming Lord Commander, and yet it has worked. This is the way, Enjolras knows this, deep down at his core, but his noble birth and his upbringing still fill him with a sense of dread, that what happens tonight will define the world to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who will be Lord Commander? What is in the letter from Cosette? These are the questions I hope you are wondering. Hopefully, the next part should be up soon (ish) - whilst the show is airing, at least!


	22. Floreal

The Red Woman appears without warning.

There are no tracks in the snow, no horse in the stable. She simply appears in the courtyard, looking up thoughtfully at the Wall, with not a single flake of snow on her blood-red cloak.

Her name is Floreal.

The Night’s Watch do not know what to do with her. Women are not allowed at the Wall; they cannot fight, not like men. Ordinarily, there will be some who attempt to take advantage. The nights are long here and the brothers of the Night’s Watch get lonely. But something about the Red Woman keeps them away. They watch her warily, she knows, she has seen their hostility in the flames. But they do not dare to bar her way when she enters the common hall on the night of the election.

The brothers make space for her without being asked; she sits down at one of the tables near the back, and simply watches. No one asks where her prophesied King has gone.

Up at the front of the room sits the Maester. At his side is a young man, willowy and wispy, like a reed. He asks the room if any would like to speak.

One of the brothers stands to give a speech in favour of a man named Javert. The men of the Night's Watch are electing a new Lord Commander, a foolish position, one no sane man in the Seven Kingdoms wants, not when the darkness is coming. She has seen it in the flame. 

Floreal looks over to the man who has been nominated and frowns. He is not the one. She knows this, even though there are cheers and the banging of cups after the speech is over. It seems as if he has a strong backing, just like the strong line of his back as he stands there, surveying the room. He thinks he deserves the position. 

Following Javert’s nomination is one for another man, though again it is not the one she has seen. Another speech, more cheers.

Then a voice speaks.

It comes from someone else, someone with an accent which places them far from this cold, dark room. His hair is burned gold. He speaks not for the two veterans but someone far younger, a man who had until now escaped her notice.

His hair is a riot of black curls, falling over the furred collar of his cloak. His nose is broken, looks almost as if it has been that way for years. The eyes which look to the blond in dawning horror are the blue of the heart of a flame. She feels the ruby at her throat pulse.

He doesn’t want to be nominated, that much is obvious. He half-rises from his feet but is stilled by a young boy (who is he? she wonders, she sees the shadow of wings on the wall behind him) who puts his hand on the blue-eyed man's arm. He didn't need to; already men are speaking up for the nominated man. There is a ranger with red hair standing next to a bald man with an imposing frame. They have the worn looks of men who have seen great evil and lived to tell the tale. After them more voices speak, listing the great things the blue-eyed man - Grantaire, she says the name to herself, forms the syllables - has done in the name of the Night's Watch. 

He has been beyond the Wall. He has been captured by the wildlings and lived to tell the tale. He has seen the White Walkers. 

She feels the warmth of the fire in the hearth kindling behind her. 

Grantaire looks shocked, both that he has been nominated, and that others are listening and nodding their agreement.

When the speeches are over, voting begins. Floreal keeps her eyes on the man, Grantaire, as the others get up to vote. There is movement in the room for several minutes as they cast their tokens, choosing who will be the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

The blind old Maester is helped to his feet by the willowy steward, who helps him to count the tokens. It is a tie between Grantaire and the veteran, Javert.

Then the Maester adds his own token.

And Grantaire becomes the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. 

Floreal smiles.


	23. Enjolras

Enjolras rides for Winterfell.  

Behind him, the Wall stands firm. The wildlings’ attempt at bringing it down so they could cross, failed. As the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Grantaire held firm, backed by the army which followed the Red Woman. Few lives were lost in the assault.

The King-Beyond-the-Wall was in chains, the last Enjolras saw of him. He is kept in the dungeons of Castle Black, along with three wildlings: Joly, Musichetta and Bousset. 

The black cloak of the Lord Commander had looked good on Grantaire but then, black always did. When Enjolras closes his eyes, he can still see those blue eyes, shocked and staring at him as Enjolras knew he was doing the right thing, putting his name forward in the election. Grantaire would never have put forward his own name, does not believe in his abilities the way others do. He does not see how loyal the men of the Night's Watch are to him.

Grantaire had not wanted to let Enjolras leave for Winterfell, had scowled when Enjolras informed him that he was leaving the Wall. It has been two days since Grantaire was voted in as Lord Commander, since he moved into the Lord Commander's tower and took up his mantle. Two nights spent in battle and two spent burning the dead. 

A few moments had passed after Enjolras told Grantaire he was leaving, Enjolras convinced - wanting? hoping? - that Grantaire would fight for him to stay.

Then Grantaire’s eyes had narrowed and he had turned, his body almost blocking Enjolras out as he said, “If you must.”

 _You cannot keep me,_ Enjolras had felt like saying. _I am not a man of the Night’s Watch._

He is Lord of Casterly Rock now, even as he stays far from the place. He is part of a larger story, not just the one here at the Wall. There is a bigger game at play here, one with shifting allegiances. His psychotic nephew no longer sits the throne, another nephew sits there instead: the story changes.

There is always someone new to mount the steps and sit the Iron Throne.

Enjolras rides for the Queen of the North, perhaps the only person to declare themselves royal who actually has any qualities of a good leader. A girl shaped by her past but not defined by it. She understands well the way children have to live with the mistakes of their parents, their legacy. She has bound people to her the same way that Grantaire has, with an innate quality, with goodness, with the potential for something more, something better. 

Her letter lies in ashes in the fireplace of Courfeyrac’s room back at the Wall. Her words are too dangerous to be seen.

“What do you think we will find there?” asks Courfeyrac, one night as they sit at a table in an inn. On the table between them are three tankards of ale.

Enjolras keeps the hood of his cloak up, lest he be recognised. His family are not well-liked in these parts. “Northeners,” he answers, with a ghost of an old smile. They had all once, to a fault, hated brash, crude Northeners with their backwards ways and stubborn hearts. How that perception has changed.

“The North remembers,” Combeferre agrees.

“I doubt they can forget,” Enjolras replies, looking around the tavern they are in. It is obvious that the war of the Five Kings has ravaged this part of the country. Roving bands of outlaws make the most of the lack of lords to keep the peace; Courfeyrac has already had to kill one, when they were set upon on the road. Speared through the heart without ever leaving his horse, with a casual viciousness the Prince of Dorne was infamous for. 

It is claimed that the Brotherhood Without Banners patrol the lands, punishing those who prey on the weak. Enjolras wonders what they will think of a Lannister Lord, the Prince of Dorne and a commoner who knows too much. 

The common folk in the inn look defeated, downtrodden. They speak ill of the King and what is happening in the South, in King's Landing. They don’t care who sits the throne: all they want is safety and security, and for hope that they will live through the coming Winter. Even this far down from the Wall, snow has started to fall, yet the South still does not care, never has. 

They speak haltingly of the Queen in the North, not quite daring to believe that she is the same girl who left with Valjean, so long ago. They fear she is changed by her time, worry that she will abuse them the way the Boltons did. Hope is a rare thing, in these parts. 

“It could be a trap,” Courfeyrac says, re-catching the thread of their conversation. “She could be waiting to murder us all. I’ve never seen a real direwolf.” Courfeyrac had been back in Dorne when Cosette had arrived in King’s Landing with Valjean, all that long time ago, her direwolf fierce and regal at her side. 

“She can't be blamed, if she is,” Enjolras agrees. “My nephew was an idiot.”

Beheading the Warden of the North was never going to end well, not for anyone.

“Cosette has much to gain,” Combeferre says. “She is an important piece.”

It is true. She gains from both what her letter offered, and from murdering the three of them once they arrive. Like a coin thrown into the air, each side an equal weight. What remains to be seen is whether she will flip the coin at all, or whether it has already landed.

Enjolras thinks back to Grantaire, up at the Wall. One token changed his fate, took him from a bastard, forgotten son to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. His coin was so heavily weighted against him and yet he has risen, has made his way to the top. With Grantaire at the wall, Enjolras feels safe, knowing that he will do whatever he can to protect the realm from the Long Night. What remains to be seen is if Cosette will do the same. 

When they arrive at Winterfell it is to see not the grand, sprawling castle Enjolras remembers from his one visit when he was younger, but the burned remains of a Greyjoy failure, followed by a Bolton horror, now slowly and painstakingly being rebuilt as Winter rushes quickly towards them. Soon the inhabitants of Winterfell will wall themselves in and try to stave off the Long Night.

Should the White Walkers make it South, if Mance’s army is to be believed that there’s more beyond, Cosette’s queendom will be the first to face the brunt of the invasion. She must be on the same side of the Night’s Watch, if they are to survive.

Enjolras thinks again of Grantaire, turning away from him back in the Lord Commander’s keep. _I do this for you,_ he thinks, _and the realm._

Taking a breath, Enjolras nudges Patria forwards, and approaches the gates of Winterfell.


	24. Grantaire

“You want to do _what_?” demands Javert. He looks furious. 

“I am going to let the wildlings past the Wall,” Grantaire says, voice firm. He is the Lord Commander now, though he did not want it. His word is law. He no longer has to bite his tongue when people like Javert speak; he is the one in charge, and the others must learn to bow to what he says. He has been thinking about this for a while, about the scattered remains of Mance's army, who Joly told him have retreated back to a place called Hardhome. If they do not make it South, if they do not go beyond the Wall, they will be easy targets for the White Walkers, more wights for their growing army.

Javert looks like he is going to turn purple. “Rapists and cannibals and murderers--” 

“Careful now,” says Grantaire. “You do not want to offend your brothers.”

Javert seethes, furious at the implication he is just like the rest of them, like the criminals who are mostly sent to populate the Wall, these days. Javert is a remnant of an old time, an ex gold-cloak, a man who took his job seriously, followed the law to a fault and believed that he could bring order to the criminals at the Wall. He might work with the other men of the Night's Watch, but he has never fully been able to shake off his prejudices, his dislike of those who have broken the law.

Past Javert, Grantaire can see Jehan making a motion with his hand, telling Grantaire to take a step back, to calm down, but he does not want to. He has made his decision and it is the right one. He does not care whether Javert likes it or not. It must be done, if they are to survive what is to come. 

Feuilly and Bahorel are in the room with them. Bahorel’s lips had pursed tight as Grantaire made his case, explaining what he was going to do, but he has not argued. Bahorel has seen the rationale, though he does not agree with it on a personal level; he has been making weapons to kill wildlings for too long. Feuilly, who has spent his life fighting and killing wildlings as a ranger, had been harder to predict. Grantaire had expected the most resistance from him, but Feuilly had simply nodded. 

Feuilly, Grantaire sometimes thinks, is the best of them all. 

“Let them all be murdered for all I care," Javert spits out the words. There is little love at the Wall amongst the watch for the wildlings.

“If we leave them on the other side of the wall, the White Walkers will get to them first. They will kill them and add to their army. I do not intend to face a greater force than I have to,” Grantaire says, on a sigh. He is tired of having to reason this, of having to argue his point. Did Lamarque have to do this, every time he made a decision?

“White Walkers,” Javert sneers. “This lunacy again?”

“We are done talking,” Grantaire informs him, turning away. 

He addresses the room at large with his next words: tells his most senior men what is to happen. “At sunrise tomorrow, I ride North with the First Ranger to bring the last of the wildling army back from their camp at Hardhome to Castle Black. They will be given lands South of the Wall and are to look after themselves once there. Below the Wall, they are not our problem. They will be guaranteed safe passage through Castle Black to reach their lands. We will _not_ stop them."

“You will make an enemy of the North,” Javert says. “You bring ruin on us all.”

“You are dismissed, Ser Javert.”

Grantaire stands firm until Javert is gone, his heavy footsteps stomping down the steps of the tower. Only then does he fall back to sit in the Lord Commander’s chair, closing his eyes. How did Lamarque do this? How did he band together all of these men from different backgrounds and with different beliefs? Why would anyone want this? 

He hears movement as someone crosses the room to him, expects Jehan come to offer him comfort, jumps when instead Floreal’s voice speaks. “What will you do with the King-Beyond-the-Wall?”

He opens his eyes to see her stood on the other side of his desk. In the flickering firelight the ruby at her throat seems to glow. He cannot seem to make out Jehan, Bahorel or Feuilly in the darkness beyond her, like she steals all of the light and the warmth in the room. Something about her puts him on edge, and yet he cannot bring himself either to be rid of her. She looks at him like he is - _something_. 

“I do not know,” he says. He has not wanted to think about it.

Down in the cells Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet sit with their King. They had refused to leave him, even at the end. The rest of the army who did not retreat is also in chains, will be until Grantaire returns from Hardhome with the rest, then they will be set free with all the others, free to go as far South as they want. 

Grantaire knows, however, that he cannot set Mance free.

“Let me have him,” says Floreal. “There is power to be had in King’s blood.”

Grantaire feels a chill at that. He tightens his grip on the arms of his chair. “No.”

Floreal frowns. “The Lord of Light--”

“I do not give a shit about your Lord of Light."

Floreal arches an eyebrow at him. “The Lord of Light cares about you - and this world. Is that not why you were elected Lord Commander? To protect the realm?”

Her words are too close to Enjolras’s, to that bloody insufferable idea he has that it’s his duty to save everyone in the Seven Kingdoms. He is one man, and yet he thinks he can save them all. Riding now to Winterfell, he thinks he can -- Grantaire tightens his grip further, his knuckles turn white. He does not want to think about Enjolras.

Grantaire had thought, foolishly, that the kiss when he had returned from North of the Wall meant something, that Enjolras had realised whilst he’d been away what Grantaire has known for some time. But it was just as quickly forgotten as their first kiss, when _they_ had been the ones who were prisoners. Now, once again, Enjolras is more concerned with saving everyone, this time by riding off to Winterfell two days after the battle when Grantaire is the newly-elected Lord Commander - which is _his fault_ \- and wants nothing more than Enjolras at his side and--

The room has gone silent. Grantaire has left his reply too long.

Slowly, he releases his grip on the arms of his chair. “I am the watcher on the walls,” he repeats the oath as he stands. “I am the shield that guards the realms of men.” He has had enough of people telling him what to do. He has never responded well to authority, respected Lamarque only because the man gave up on trying to rule him. "I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch." _Not_ to the Lord of Light. 

“At sunrise, I go North. Mance will come with me.” He does not trust Floreal, not here, not alone. “Bahorel, you have command of the Wall.”

He glances around, spots Gavroche slouching against the wall in the darkness, picking at his fingernails sullenly. “Gav, see to Honour.” The kid looks up, opens his mouth like he’s going to say something smart. “Then find a horse for yourself.”

Gavroche’s mouth drops open in surprise. Grantaire has to hide his smile, as he turns his attention to Jehan. “I would like to see the Maester, before I leave.” It might possibly be the last time; the Maester is on the edge of death. Grantaire does not know if he will be here, when he returns. If he does. 

Jehan nods and leads the way. Grantaire can feel Floreal’s eyes on his back, even when the door closes behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is diverging off not where I planned it to go. However, I'm still having fun with it. I hope you are to! Let me know your thoughts, what you think will happen.


	25. Gavroche  [interlude vi]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point on, avoid reading if you're worried about spoilers from the books or the tv show. Elements of both come in.

Gavroche feels like he can’t breathe. 

He has always had dreams, North of the Wall. One of the reasons he has always gone there - against the rules of the Night’s Watch, the wishes of his sister - is because of them. He has to know what they are, what they mean. Once he is in the haunted forest it seems to whisper to him, a low wind everyone else dismisses. 

In his dreams there is a raven with three eyes. 

“Fly,” it tells him. “Or die.”

For his whole life, Gavroche has been running. His life was defined by his flight from his home. He has to stay one step ahead of his parents, the Black Rose (tosser), everyone who wants to do he and his sister ill because of who they are. The urge to run took them North, to the Wall, but still there is an itch, under his skin, to go further.

Grantaire is the only one who knows, the only one he has told about his dreams. The only person in the world who doesn’t care who he and his sister are, what their name is, or where they came from. Or what Gavroche’s dreams tell him.

But then, Grantaire has his own secrets.

Gavroche should have left the ranging party the moment they left the Wall, should have not followed Grantaire and the others to Hardhome. Should never have gone so far beyond the Wall. Now the dreams plague him at Castle Black, he sees the raven’s wings in the shadows on the wall of the Lord Commander’s keep, thrown up by the flickering flames of the fire in the hearth. 

“Based on what little we know of their actual numbers, seeing as headcounts are not apparently a thing wildlings do, we think that they have all made it South,” Jehan is saying, consulting a piece of parchment with scribbles of ink across it. Words. Numbers. Gavroche has no idea what they say; he never learned how to read. Probably never will. 

In another time, another life, he might have.

“The towns close to the Wall aren’t happy, there are already reports coming in--”

“They will have to deal with it.” Grantaire is tired. Newly returned from Hardhome, his shoulders sag. There are new cuts on his hands, new bruises. Gavroche watched him bleed for his men, for the wildlings who had been killing the Night’s Watch for years. There are dark circles under his eyes, just like those under Gavroche’s. 

Half the number that left have returned. The King-Beyond-the-Wall is dead, decapitated in battle by one of the White Walkers with their swords of ice.

The wildlings had dark circles too, as they trudged through the grounds of Castle Black to their freedom, but Gavroche has never known a wildling who didn’t look half-starved, exhausted, dying. The land North of the Wall is a terrifying place. The rumours of giants were not lies.

“With all due respect,” and Bahorel sounds like he has precious little, right now, “We have allowed people into their homes who are willing to rape, pillage and plunder, to destroy _everything_ they have, no wonder they are angry. Yet you are telling them to just deal with it?”

“What else do you want to me to do?” snaps Grantaire. He sounds furious - and exhausted, a bone-deep weariness which comes with a decision everyone will - can - does - hate him for. “Let them all be turned into fodder for the White Walkers? Add to their army? They are _human beings_. No one deserves that.”

“And your own men?” Bahorel presses. “Feuilly could have _died_ at Hardhome. Others _did_.”

Feuilly’s injuries are severe. Gavroche had snuck in to see him the night they’d returned. Feuilly was out cold, his breathing rattled. Gavroche hadn’t dared to lift the sheet over him to where the sword had pierced him, but he hadn’t had to; he’d seen it pierce through him like parchment. Watched the blood spray across the snow. 

“Feuilly knew we were doing the right thing,” Grantaire replies. “He had to try out the weapons you made. The dragonglass _worked-_ -”

“And you lost it _all_ when you fled!”

“Grantaire did what he had to do, to halt the rising darkness.” The Red Woman’s voice comes out of the darkness itself, though light seems to bend differently around her. She always looks warm, lit by a fire from somewhere else.

Gavroche trusts her less than he trusts the Lannister, Enjolras. 

“The Lord of Light--” Gavroche has heard enough. In his mind, wings flutter. 

Perched on the window as he is, it is easy for him to climb up, then curl an arm around the side of the tower wall and pull himself across. Certain stones poke out further than the others, he searches for them with his feet, then pushes up and jumps to curl his hands around the edge of the roof. 

Gavroche has been climbing towers and escaping onto rooftops for as long as he can remember. He used to do it back in Highgarden, before everything went to shit, though it was less fun there, with all the roses and their thorns. Feeling restless, he heads for the Wall itself, climbs into the lift through the window, though he could just use the door.

The winch is rusted and shrieks as he is pulled to the top. _Fly_ , says the raven in his mind. 

Hours pass as he stands at the top of the Wall, perched on the edge of one of the wooden walkways. Down below he can just about make out the ground, the remnants of the battle the wildlings had waged against them in a desperate effort to get South, before Grantaire captured their King and then went North with him, to offer them safe passage to the Seven Kingdoms. 

Gavroche looks beyond to the forest itself. Somewhere in there is a weirwood Gavroche has seen in his dreams, with red eyes and a twisted wooden mouth. Beyond that is the army of wights and the White Walkers.

He tenses automatically when there is a creak behind him on the wooden slats of the walkway. He hears the swish of a cloak as it brushes along the ground, muffling booted feet as they walk towards him. Then a sigh, as the Lord Commander, as _Grantaire,_ comes into his peripheral vision.

One of Grantaire’s hands rests on the pommel of his sword, Valyrian steel. He killed a White Walker with it at Hardhome. Gavroche saw it happen. 

“She has seen you in the flames.” It is difficult to tell, Gavroche thinks, if Grantaire believes what the Red Woman says. He has not sent her away, has her around during important conversations, yet there is not the warmth in him that he has when he is speaking to his brothers. 

The thought of the Red Woman seeing him in the flames makes Gavroche feel sick. There is something inhuman about the Red Woman, something deeply evil. He’s heard the stories, they all have, how she is immune to poison, the shadows she has birthed, the people she has burned.

“There was a corpse with a thousand red eyes.”

Gavroche kicks his legs, frowning as he tries to pick out the words he needs. “It’s all bullshit. The Lord of Light. The Seven. The Old Gods. All of it.” He leaves space for Grantaire’s reply, but there isn’t one, just the gentle flapping of his cloak. “They don’t care for us. No one does. Did you hear what’s going on in King’s Landing? The High Sparrow? Trying to make out like everything is the will of the Gods when really he just wants power, like everyone else.”

Gavroche is sick of people with titles and family and power, the never-ending cycle of people rising to the top and then being crushed beneath others’ heels. Over and over and over again. He doesn’t care if the Lord of Light has plans for him. 

"I spoke to Joly and Bossuet for you,” Grantaire says, shifting the conversation. “Before they left. They say some wildlings have spoken of him, the man in the tree, of what he can do. Some believe but not all. He can see into the past, the present, the future. They say the White Walkers are afraid of him.” 

What would Gavroche do, he wonders, if he could change the past? Would he want to see the future? No. Such things can never be good. 

“I want you to find him, to see if he is real.” Grantaire pauses. He seems to be searching out the words. “She has asked about you, since the flames.” The _I do not trust her_ is silent, but it makes Gavroche’s blood run cold anyway. Shadow monsters and human sacrifices. “Eponine has already agreed to go. She does not want to be here, when Enjolras returns.”

“He’s coming back?” Gavroche asks, surprised.

“He’s already on his way.”

Gavroche thinks of Eponine, his sister, of her fear that they will be found. Cosette has no love for them, nor does Enjolras. The two of them together is a threat his sister would rather not face. Grantaire has seen this, and rather than losing them both to the night, has found them a destination.

“The men are not happy,” Gavroche says. “Not since your return. The wildlings--”

“I know,” Grantaire replies, and he sounds sad. So achingly, painfully sad. Gavroche wants to stay with him, to be on his side, but his self-preservation instinct is stronger. As is his sister’s. The three-eyed raven speaks in his dreams. “I will deal with it.”

Then, unprompted and unexpected: “I am sending Jehan to the citadel.”

The old Maester died whilst they were at Hardhome, passed away silently in the night. His body burned before they even returned, Jehan withdrawn and somber. 

He is sending everyone away, thinks Gavroche, everyone who voted him in as Lord Commander. Eponine, Gavroche, Jehan... Even the wildlings, the three who seemed to know Grantaire from before. They too are gone, set free into the South. Grantaire has seen something, Gavroche now knows. Darkness arriving at the Wall. 

If he were smart, if he cared only about himself, Grantaire would keep them close. Would have left the wildlings to die. But Grantaire is nobler than he knows, is making the decisions he knows are right, even as everyone hates him for it. 

“Find the three-eyed raven for me,” Grantaire says. “He may be our only hope.”

Gavroche looks back at the haunted forest, at the darkness beyond and the monsters lurking within. His enemies are everywhere, closing in from all sides. Enjolras, Cosette, the Black Rose... At least North of the Wall he knows who the enemy is. North of the Wall he might learn how to fly. 

Still looking out into the darkness, he nods, once. Grantaire’s hand moves to his shoulder, firm and reassuring. He doesn’t say thank you, he doesn’t have to. 

Gavroche listens to the sound of Grantaire’s footsteps as he walks away, until he is alone again at the top of the Wall. Somewhere in the distance, a bird caws.


	26. Enjolras

"You’re married.”

Grantaire’s words don’t even try and lift up into a question, fall flat into a statement. Tired. Exhausted. Enjolras wants to reach out and touch him, to bring some life back into those blue eyes, but doesn’t know how. 

Instead, he digs his fingers further into his arms where they are crossed over his chest and says, “Yes. I am.”

There is a moment of silence, caught in time. A second where everything freezes and all Enjolras can hear is the crackling of the fire in the hearth, the sound of his own breathing, tight in his chest. 

“You’re fucking _married_ ,” Grantaire says and the venom in his voice is unprecedented - and easier to focus on than what’s underneath, the hurt, the betrayal. The emotions Enjolras has dreaded the entire ride from Winterfell to the Wall.

“It doesn’t change-” Enjolras attempts, stepping forwards, “It doesn’t change how I--”

“It changes everything!” Grantaire yells at him, his fury so great Enjolras actually takes a step back. “You’re married to a Stark, to a woman whose family _hates_ yours. She declared herself Queen in the North and refused to send us any aid and you _married_ her--”

“The Night’s Watch takes no sides,” Enjolras says, fighting to keep his voice controlled. “You cannot hate her for what she does. Cosette is - she - I can have the men, I am here to tell you that. But first we must figure out how to defend the realm, how to protect everyone from what is to come--”

“And the way to protect us is to get _married_?” Grantaire seethes. “I nearly _died,_ I turned my own men against me, I brought back the rest of the wildlings from Hardhome even though I lost my own men - _good_ men - and turned the rest of them against me - because I knew that it was the _right thing_ to do _._   _That_ is how you protect the realm, sacrificing everything, doing what is right, not riding off and getting - getting _married_  - no, Enjolras!”

He brings his hands up as he shouts the last two words, holding off Enjolras as Enjolras moves towards him, reaching out for him. Enjolras freezes in place, his hands outstretched. Grantaire is hurt and his emotions are bleeding out, like a walking wound. 

“No,” Grantaire repeats, softer this time, quieter. His knees seem to give out and he drops, backing against his desk to lean against the edge of it, like he can no longer fight the force of gravity to remain standing. “You don’t get to do this to me.”

He is pulling apart at the seams. Enjolras sees that now. He has fractured because of what he has had to do, by the pressure of being Lord Commander. The decisions he has had to make to save everyone, which they are all hating him for. 

They fall into silence again, but it is less fraught this time, less like balancing on a knife’s edge. It is sad and quiet. The fire still crackles, the snow still falls beyond the window. Enjolras had almost forgotten just how cold it is, this far North. Cosette had smiled at him in her Northern furs and her direwolf had yawned at her side as he’d shivered in the snow in the grounds of Winterfell. 

Enjolras takes another step forwards, and though Grantaire watches, he does not put his hands up to stop him this time. 

“I rode to Winterfell because it was the right thing,” Enjolras says, “Because the North will bear the brunt of the invasion, should the Wall fall. It is not about you, or I, or anything else. I had to do it for the realm. They have to stand with us.”

Grantaire’s answering laugh is bitter. It tears at something in Enjolras’s veins. “Of course. The realm. That is what matters.”

Enjolras has never professed to place his own desires above those of the realm. He has always been honest about that. He has always made it clear that what comes first is survival, is the Seven Kingdoms. He has never before faced someone who makes him want to be selfish like Grantaire does. Who makes him want something purely for himself. 

“Of course,” Grantaire says, soft. “And I suppose that this is the same. Secure my loyalty, make sure the Wall is behind you, protect the realm. Whatever is necessary-” 

Grantaire’s breath catches as Enjolras steps forwards, as he closes the distance between them to stand between Grantaire’s legs and take his face in his hands. He can feel Grantaire’s body trembling, as Enjolras brushes his thumbs across Grantaire’s cheekbones. 

“You matter,” he says. “You always have. You make me - what I feel for you is not faked, Grantaire. It is real. It always has been.”

Grantaire’s voice is broken as he says, “But you’re married.”

“In name, yes.” He cannot deny that part. “But not with my heart. She needed a southern ally. I needed legitimacy, the North. I needed to know that the North would not turn against us when it matters. Cosette can give us that. Just as I can give her the South.”

“But did you have to _marry_ her?”

“Yes.” He hates the way Grantaire flinches at the word. “There is no love between us. We agreed on that at the start. She - I am not to tell you this, I am to tell no one. Her heart belongs with another, but marriage to him would do her no well. She is with him now, he never leaves her side. I do not care. that part of our marriage he can have.”

He doesn’t look away from Grantaire as he speaks, watches Grantaire’s emotions flit across his face with every word. _Anger - confusion - annoyance - hope._ When he sees that, Enjolras steps closer again, closes the distance between them completely so their bodies are pressed together, Grantaire backed against the desk. He can feel every part of Grantaire’s body in a way he has only imagined, these last few weeks. 

“She knows she does not have my heart,” Enjolras says, determined to pull Grantaire there with him. “I already gave that away.”

Grantaire’s eyes close. He takes a breath. It shakes. 

When he opens his eyes again he says, “Does that make me your mistress?”

Enjolras’s laugh startles out of him. “No.” There is not a word for what he and Grantaire are for each other. He thinks Grantaire knows this too. Enjolras tilts his head, so their foreheads are pressed together, and closes his eyes. He hears a rustle, then Grantaire’s hands have moved out of his cloak and come to rest on Enjolras’s waist. 

For a moment, they take the time to just breathe. 

Eventually, Enjolras can ignore the protests of the muscles in his neck no longer, leans back. Grantaire’s grip tightens on his waist for a second, as if scared he’s going to leave. 

“How long are you here for?” Grantaire asks. 

“Three days.”

Grantaire appears to consider this, and then nods. “Jehan is leaving tonight for the citadel. He will want to see you before he goes. Bahorel will want to spar with you and knock you to the ground again, no doubt. For old time’s sake.” He smiles. “Have you seen Feuilly yet? We should visit--”

Enjolras cuts him off with his lips, leans in to kiss him. 

It is softer than all of their previous kisses, less harsh and desperate and devastating. Still Enjolras’s heart jumps in his chest, when Grantaire makes a little sound and pulls him closer. 

“Three days,” Enjolras repeats, when they break for air. “The others, the rest of them, all of it, they can wait. Tonight is ours.”

The look in Grantaire’s eyes is so hopeful, so pure, Enjolras has to close his own. Their lips meet again, and all time ceases to have meaning. 

\- -  

Three days later, Enjolras prepares for his return to Winterfell, to his wife, to Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He checks over Patria’s reins and her saddle, pats her flank as she huffs in the cold winter air. She is getting more used to being in the North, but still glares at him sometimes as if she wishes nothing more than to be back at Casterly Rock, in the South. 

“Soon,” Enjolras says, thinking of the long road ahead of them, the battles they will have to face. 

He spent the previous day speaking with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, wildlings who returned at Grantaire's request to speak with Enjolras about the North. The men of the Night’s Watch gave them a wide berth, muttered grumblings whenever they were near. They have been given freedom to roam wherever they want South of the Wall, and word is already reaching them of the thieving, pillaging and more. 

Grantaire stands alone in the middle of the yard. His men too now give him a wide berth. Javert stands up on the walkway, glaring. Some things never change. Bahorel looks over Feuilly in his injury bed, unwilling to leave his side should his recovery take a sharp turn in the wrong direction. The Red Woman stands slightly apart from them all, her gaze fixed on Enjolras. She sees too much. Enjolras does not like leaving her here, at the Wall with Grantaire, but Grantaire had said she was to be trusted. As if to confirm this, several of the army she had arrived with she has given permission to return to Winterfell with Enjolras, to add to Cosette’s forces. 

The air is thick and tense, has been since Enjolras returned. Things are changing at the Wall and not everyone is happy with it. 

Snow crunches beneath Grantaire’s feet as he approaches to say goodbye. His words are perfunctory, bland, emotionless. Enjolras responds in kind. 

They had their real goodbye that morning. 

If Enjolras closes his eyes, he can still feel Grantaire’s hand against his body, tracing the hard lines of his chest, their legs tangled together. Hear Grantaire’s words murmured into his skin. 

In the present, Grantaire says, “Should you or your wife wish to send us any more men, Ser Enjolras, you know we are always happy to take them.”

Enjolras smiles. “We will send as many as we can. Goodbye, Lord Commander.”

“Goodbye.”

They clasp arms, and then Enjolras mounts his horse. He takes the reins in one hand and looks back at the others, those who have become his family since he was disowned by his father. The men he wants nothing more than to protect. He meets eyes with each one and then turns. He does not look at Grantaire, knows he can’t. If he looks, he won’t be able to leave. 

Enjolras turns Patria towards the gate, hearing the rest of his new army do the same behind him. They march for Winterfell, and the men of the Night’s Watch watch them go. 

Enjolras doesn’t look back. 

He doesn’t choose to remain at the Wall, to stay for just one more night. He doesn’t stay late into the night, so he doesn’t hear the other men of the Night’s Watch waking when they should be asleep. He doesn’t see the runner, who makes his way up to Grantaire’s tower, hammers frantically on his door to tell him that there is news. 

He doesn’t follow the men to a corner of the grounds, doesn’t see Grantaire forget to grab his sword as he follows. He is not there when Grantaire pushes his way forwards to the front of the group, is not able to see what Grantaire does: the wooden sign, the scrawled word, thick, dark and brutal: 

_Traitor_

Enjolras does not see Grantaire’s dawning realisation, the way he turns with dread to face his men. He is not there to protect him when the first knife goes in, cannot save him from any of the rest. He is no help at all as Grantaire is murdered by his own men. 

Because he is not there, Enjolras does not see Grantaire’s body as it falls to the ground, does not watch the blood, thick and red as rubies, seep out across the snow. He does not see Grantaire’s hand reach out, his last move, towards the gate Enjolras left through, only hours before. 

Enjolras didn’t look back, and Grantaire dies. 


	27. Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't update during this season of GOT because I wasn't the biggest fan of some plot decisions, however I received a lovely little comment about this fic so I decided to carry on!

The godswood is quiet.

When he first came to the North, Enjolras thought them a strange tradition, a relic from an older age, an enclosed forest within the walls of a castle's keep. Now he finds that it is the only place he can find solace.

Snow blankets the ground in every direction, muffling the sounds of everything else. At his back is the weirwood tree, leaves as red as the blood dripping from the eyes in its haunted face. A cold wind blows from the North, reaching its icy fingers under the furs he wears, chilling him to the bone. And yet, he feels more at peace here than he has anywhere else since the letter came. He sits on a rock worn smooth by use over the years, his hands clasped around the hilt of his sword, the Lannister lion glaring regally out at the world.

Enjolras's own eyes look out over the glassy pool of water in front of him, but all he can see is Grantaire the morning that he left, lying back against the pillows in the bed they'd shared, his ice-blue eyes the only warm thing in the cold tower room, as he smiled a shy, soft smile Enjolras had never seen him smile before - and never will again.

Every inhalation is a sharp knife point in his chest. Every memory a painful beat of his heart.

Sometimes Enjolras thinks the godswood tree is speaking to him: there is a voice on the wind he half-recognises, but when he turns there is never anything - or anyone - there, just the face carved into the old weirwood tree.

There is the crunch of snow underfoot, the swishing of a cloak drawn across the ground. Quieter still the padding of wolf paws, almost silent, a sound he wouldn't have noticed at all, had Enjolras not spent so long in silence, just listening, over the last week since the letter came. Cosette walks through the godswood as if it is a mild summer's day, the hood of her cloak down on her shoulders, snow flakes catching on the fur, her golden hair spilling in cascading curls. She wears the Stark emblem on her chest, sewn into a dress that has been fashioned to look like armour. The Queen of the North does not have to posture and threaten and bribe, as his sister does, she just simply _is_.

Cosette sits down next to him and her direwolf settles down next to her, stretching out across the snowy floor. The direwolf opens her jaws wide and yawns, showing a terrifying amount of teeth, then closes her eyes, resting her head on top of her paws.

"A white raven arrived from the Citadel." Cosette's voice is soft and musical. At first, Enjolras thought it was affected, a way of making her seem sweet and innocent, but it's just how she talks - and she _is_ sweet and innocent... but she's also strong and fierce and protective of those she loves. Winterfell loves her already, the North will go to war for her and gladly lay down their lives. It is only because of her that Enjolras is able to stay here: the North hate him, hate their union, but Cosette's influence is strong enough to keep the various lords and ladies in line. For now. 

When he first arrived from the Wall, before the letter came, Enjolras's focus was on preparing Winterfell for war, on mustering the armies Grantaire needed to keep back the White Walkers. He and Cosette had called every lord and lady to Winterfell for a meeting to discuss the coming problem. 

They are all on their way now, some of them arriving over the last week. Enjolras likes Lady Mormont the most. She is fierce and unswerving in her loyalty and undeniably a Northerner. How his opinions have changed.

Courfeyrac does not seem to be afforded the same wariness that Enjolras is. The Prince of Dorne's cheerful disposition and effortless charm have seen him win many admirers already. He shines like the warmth of the sun and there is always a group of people around him, talking to him, drinking with him. He is on first name terms with all of the serving staff and knows every little piece of gossip in the castle. Enjolras rarely sees him during the day but he's always there at night, when Enjolras meets with Combeferre, solid and stable and dependable. The greatest friends a man could ever ask for. 

Combeferre spends most of his day in discussions with Cosette, working out how to survive. Combeferre was made for this, a commoner with the greatest talent the world over for seeing through people to their hearts. He can pull a plan apart in seconds and construct another so complex and detailed it would baffle even the Citadel's greatest minds. He has become a Hand of the Queen, of sorts, to Cosette, sharing intel with her gained through years in King's Landing, when all the great families overlooked him and paid not attention to his brilliance.

At all times with Cosette there is Marius. 

Enjolras doesn't get what Cosette sees in him but he knows that Marius's loyalty to her is unwavering, that he loves her more than anything else in the world.

Grantaire...

Enjolras knows what Grantaire would say about them, were he... were he still...

"Winter is officially here." Cosette's voice is amused. Despite himself, Enjolras finds himself smiling slightly along with her. 

"Is it not always Winter here?" he asks. 

"It's good to see you smile," Cosette says. 

Enjolras smiles a little more at that, at the goodness of her heart. He doesn't think he will ever smile truly again. "How is Marius?"

"He is wonderful. That's actually what I came out here to talk to you about." Of course it wouldn't be about Winter. Cosette has made sure not to overburden him in the last week, since she saw his expression when the news came from the Wall. She looks now down at her hands, the fingers linked together. "I am pregnant."

It is a startling revelation - miraculous, Grantaire would say, with a wry smile, knowing that Cosette has never shared her husband's bed - but Enjolras finds that he is not worried. Instead, he is genuinely happy for her. For Marius. 

"I do not think the North will follow a Stark heir with a Lannister name," Cosette says, her voice soft, sad. An orphan herself, she knows what it is like for a child to grow up in a world where it feels as if it is an outcast from birth. It is the obvious conclusion to draw: she is married to him and though she kept her own name, ostensibly to keep the Northerners in line, tradition dictates the child will take his. 

Fuck tradition. 

"I will be the last of my line," Enjolras says. He looks not at her, but across the still pool. His nephews and niece are dead, victims in his sister's games. She has ascended the throne, named herself queen. The letter he sent to her after marrying Cosette received no reply, just as the one asking for aid at the Wall disappeared into the void; she disowned him when his father did. She named herself head of the Lannister family, declaring Enjolras as good as dead, seized Casterly Rock and all the money in its coffers.

It was the inevitability Combeferre had tried to stop, riding North to find him at the Wall, the one Enjolras had ignored because he was too busy with the Night's Watch, too preoccupied by the coming Long Night. Now Grantaire is dead and his sister rules from the Iron throne, and Enjolras...

"Give the child your name," he says. "It is a Stark. It needs to be free from the madness that runs through my family - what was my family. Sometimes I think that I did not ever really have one." The Night's Watch he realises now, was the closest thing he ever had. "I will be the last Lannister." His sister might be alive now, but Enjolras knows she will not last. 

He hears Cosette's breath hitch in the silence. Her direwolf stirs, one eye opening. 

After a few moments, Cosette's hand comes to rest on top of his, where it rests on the hilt of his sword. After a moment, Enjolras lets go with one hand, drops it to rest on the boulder between them, Cosette's hand clapsed in his. The world is silent around them, broken only by the sound of rustling leaves when a quiet wind blows. Again, Enjolras thinks he hears his name on it, but it is nothing, there is nothing, just him, his wife and the weirwood tree. 

Grantaire is dead and the white winds of winter blow. 

The crack in Enjolras's heart will never heal, but he cannot stay here, in the godswood, forever. He must get up and leave and carry on, must continue what Grantaire began - what he was killed for - at the Wall. Cosette, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, even Marius, they are his family now, and he must do what it takes to keep them alive. The realm always comes first, that was what he had said to his father, the words that saw him banished to the Wall. Now it is his time to see that through. 

A white raven arrived from the Citadel. 

Winter is finally here. 


	28. Jehan [interlude vii]

Grantaire thinks that he sent Jehan to the Citadel to become a Maester.

Grantaire ought to know by now that Jehan does not go anywhere he does not want to go. Then again, Grantaire doesn't even realise that Enjolras is in love with him - or that he is, with Enjolras - so maybe he can be forgiven for thinking that he has any control over what Jehan Prouvaire does. 

In the small bag he carries with him containing his meagre belongings, there is a lone obsidian dagger. Along with it is the Maester's personal journal, the notes he took the night Grantaire arrived at the Wall, the secret in the dark.  

On his way to the Citadel, Jehan stops by his ancestral home.

Horn Hill is as beautiful as it always was, the stone still warm from the fading Autumn sun. Winter has officially arrived, but its shadow has not yet reached this far South. He stops by the pond at the foot of the Red Mountains of Dorne for a short rest and allows himself the small pleasure of taking off his cloak, folding it up to put it into his bag. He has worn furs and heavy cloaks for so long that he almost forgot what it was like to not be cold.  

Jehan spends a moment standing in the gardens just outside the castle when he arrives, one hand on a wall, looking out over the grounds he spent his youth running around with his siblings. Vines crawl up the wall he leans against, a bright shock of green that is surprising to the senses, coming from Castle Black. When he breathes in he can smell the roses his mother tends to in the gardens, gifts from their lords, the Tyrells. Jehan closes his eyes, tilts his head back and takes a deep breath. 

"Well, well, well. The prodigal son returns."

Jehan does not open his eyes. "Go away, Montparnasse."

Silence is his only response, but Jehan knows better than to think that Montparnasse has fucked off. The silence _sounds_ smug. 

When he has drawn it out enough that he knows Montparnasse will be on edge, Jehan opens his eyes again, tilting his head back down (only a little, Montparnasse is too bloody tall) to look at the one person who could ruin his return home. 

The Black Rose of Highgarden stands before him. 

Montparnasse wears the colours of House Tyrell, the beautiful roses, the sharp thorns. Jehan has no idea why he is here at Horn Hill, but imagines it is nothing good. The Tyrell's daughter was queen for a short time - twice, in fact - but Enjolras's sister saw to that. Their family is in tatters, no heirs left to continue the work of the Queen of Thorns - except the Black Rose. 

"Shouldn't you be poisoning the ear of the queen?" Jehan asks. He drops his hand from the wall of vines and begins to head through the courtyard to the castle itself where his father, mother and sister will be waiting. His brother died in the calamity that was the end of the Tyrell's grip on King's Landing. 

"Maybe I want to whisper sweet nothings into yours instead." Montparnasse falls into step beside him. He even smells like roses. Jehan smells like horse and several days on the road after a long and tiring boat ride down from Eastwatch. 

They walk through halls that had seemed so much grander, when he was a child. Jehan finds the ornate rugs and abundance of pictures on the wall odd now, used to the bare simplicity of Castle Black. Do people really live like this in the South? It seems so pointless, so frivolous, when the money could be spent instead on raising an army or stockpiling food for the coming Winter. He knows the lords and ladies must have received the white raven from the Citadel by now, but it's as if the South thinks they are immune to the ravages of weather, war and famine.

In the main hall his family's Valyrian sword is displayed imposingly on the wall above the hearth. What use is it there? Jehan wants to know. A sword should be carried at a person's side, ready for battle, not displayed like some relic of the past. 

Montparnasse trails him all the way to his old bedroom, needling him and charming in equal measures, right up until Jehan shuts the door in his face.  

\- - - 

Dinner with his father goes about as well as expected. It takes a moment for Jehan to remember his manners, seated at the long table with servants seeing to their every whim. His warnings about the Long Night are met with incredulous looks and scorn. His mother and sister are gentle and kind, but Jehan can see in their eyes that they worry about him. He doesn't have time to stay here and alleviate their worries or convince his father that what he says is true. There isn't enough time and he has far more important things to do. 

Montparnasse smirks at him throughout the meal. It is clear Jehan's father has taken him under his wing in the downfall of House Tyrell and sees him more as a son than Jehan ever was. The betrothal from Montparnasse to Jehan's sister will surely be announced any day now. Jehan feels sorry for her, but he cannot save her, not when there is something far worse than the Black Rose lurking North of the Wall. (Not that, he thinks, his sister needs saving. Jehan has met enough fierce women by now to know that they can protect themselves.)

He decides to leave in the middle of the night. It was a foolish err to come here. If he stays any longer his father will find way to keep him, manipulate him, use him. 

It is clear to him after one meal that there is no help for Grantaire and the Night's Watch in the South. They are spoiled summer children who have never known fear. Oh, sure, the War of the Five Kings has ravaged them and several great houses have both rose and fell, but that is just politics, another game of thrones. They have not seen the Night King and felt fear down to their bones. They have not seen their brothers at arms raised from the dead and turned into mindless killers. They do not know what it is like to have to burn their dead. 

On his way out, Jehan takes Heartsbane. 

He's just loading up his horse to leave again when he hears footsteps. He turns to see a shadow outlined in inky black in the stable entrance, lit only by the candle flickering in the lantern Jehan brought to light his way. Montparnasse holds a sword. 

"I believe that belongs to House Tarly."

Jehan pulls the last strap tight to hold the saddle in place. "So do I."

"'Night gathers, and so my watch begins', I believe that's how it goes, is it not? Something something shall not end until I die."

"Until my death."

Montparnasse shrugs. "Same difference." He takes a step forwards. For a moment in the light from the lantern, his blade glows red. He learned how to fight from the best of the best, had private tutors and grew up with Loras Tyrell, arguably the best swordsman of the modern age. Which is all well and good, if Jehan had not been taught by murderers and cutthroats and outlaws, North of the Wall, hammered into steel by the brutality of survival. 

Montparnasse's nose makes a satisfying crunching noise, when Jehan slams the pommel of his sword into it. 

The Black Rose goes down with his next sentence half-formed as Jehan mounts his horse. 

Montparnasse turns his head and spits blood onto the straw-covered floor. "You've changed, Prouvaire."

Jehan looks down at him, taking the reins into one hand. Montparnasse is right. When he left Horn Hill all those years ago, he was a shy noble son who read poems, played on the flute, grew flowers and spent most of his time studying grand ideas books. He would never have challenged Montparnasse, or argued with his father, or stolen his family's sword and rode out in the dead of night. He would never have punched Montparnasse in the face. 

He wonders why. It was surprisingly therapeutic. 

Jehan smiles down at him now, sprawled out on the ground at his feet. 

"Goodbye, Montparnasse."

He digs his heels into his horse and moves towards the exit. Montparnasse swears and rolls to one side to avoid being trampled. He half-staggers to his feet, blood dripping from his nose, and lifts his sword, looking as if he's going to do something with it, but seems to think better of it when his gaze lands on Heartsbane at Jehan's side. 

"Oh, and," says Jehan, glancing back over his shoulder as he leaves. "Eponine and Gavroche are alive." He sees the shock on Montparnasse's face at the revelation. "And you will never find them."

He rides out into the darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> timelines? what timelines??
> 
> You can assume Grantaire is killed by the Night's Watch at some point on Jehan's journey to the Citadel. but word has not yet reached Jehan (and who left at the Wall would think of sending him the message? Who can write and knows how to send off ravens? that was Jehan's job).


	29. Gavroche

Gavroche sees everything; past, present, future.

Everything – and nothing.

He watches as, exhausted, frozen, fading, he and his sister arrive in a cave in the haunted forest. 

He sees his own stunned expression as he meets the three-eyed crow for the first time and hears the once-lord speak. He is a pale, skeletal man in rotted, black clothing that is reminiscent of the black coat of the watch Eponine still wears. His skin is white, his hair is white and his one remaining eye is red. He sits in a weirwood throne of tangled roots, the roots themselves twisting and twining around and into him.

The last greenseer looks at Gavroche and Eponine and his voice rasps like parchment as he tells them what he knows. 

“You will see shadows of days past. Time is different for a tree than for a man. Sun and soil and water, these are the things a weirwood understands, not days and years and centuries. For men, time is a river. We are trapped in its flow, hurtling from past to present, always in the same direction. The lives of trees are different. They root and grow and die in one place, and that river does not move them. The oak is the acorn, the acorn is the oak. And the weirwood … a thousand human years are a moment to a weirwood, and through such gates you and I may gaze into the past.“

~ ~ ~

Gavroche closes his eyes and slips free of his skin. Into the roots, into the weirwood. Become the tree. For an instant he can see the cavern in its black mantle, can hear the river rushing by below. Then, all at once, he is somewhere he has never been. 

At Winterfell, the snow falls.

Enjolras and Combeferre stand by a pool of ice cold water. Courfeyrac leans back against the heart tree, Gavroche can feel his heartbeat through the bark, the warmth of a summer child. Courfeyrac's attention is focused solely on Combeferre, all of his attention narrowed down and focused as if to say _this one_. 

Enjolras is angry, Gavroche can see it on his face. It is the anger of an argument which has been going on for some time, of a stubborn nature that does not want to bend and is afraid that he will break. His hands are tense at his sides, balled up into fists in his leather gloves. His cloak trails across the snow behind him as he paces. 

"...I will _not_. If I go home, she will throw me into the dungeons, I will be made an example of - and even if I am not, even if I am somehow to succeed, if she believes me about the Night's King and gives us the troops that we need, winter is already here. The King's Road is already too dangerous to travel, when the snow falls in earnest it will be too thick to take the other routes. What if I am in the South, what if I can't make it back? I have to be here, I cannot abandon everyone and leave you all here to die.."

Time fades, the scene reforms. 

Courfeyrac sits on one of the roots of the tree now, holding an amulet of some kind in his hand. Gavroche can only just see over his shoulder, the edge of what appears to be some sort of image inside the amulet. Courfeyrac is promising the woman in the image something, in a serious voice Gavroche never heard him once use at the Wall. 

There are footsteps in the snow and Courfeyrac looks up, the amulet snapping closed as he hides it in his palm and gets to his feet. 

~ ~ ~

Then: he is home. 

He had forgotten how beautiful Highgarden is.

The inner rings of Highgarden are a beautiful complex of towers, courtyards, colonnades and statuary, and greenery is just as prominent inside the walls as in the fields outside; ivy, grapevines and climbing roses can be seen snaking around the buildings, and gardens and arbors are filled with flowers. Water features trickle inside the walls, into pools as still and clear as glass, fountains and even man-made waterfalls visible throughout the complex. 

He finds himself in the godswood. There is no heart tree, but three tall weirwood trees known as the Three Singers. They have become so enmeshed over the centuries that they resemble a single tree with three trunks. The godswood at Highgarden is well-tended but not well-loved; religion is a passing thing here, something mentioned but not followed, not like in Winterfell. Gavroche blinks and time passes. Past, present, future. He is lonely. 

Then, a blonde girl. 

He sees Cosette as she was back then, before everything went wrong, frightened and afraid and dressed in rags. He was not born at this moment and yet he still sees her. She sits on one of the exposed roots of the tree and presses her palm to the trunk just below the face, closing her eyes. 

_Hello._

Her voice reaches across time to him. It is achingly sad. 

Gavroche recoils, pulling back away from her, but the roots of the weirwood tree refuse to let go of him. This is Cosette as Eponine remembers her, a young girl without a mother, left in their care.  There is no Valjean in her life, not yet. She is not yet a Stark, a far cry from being the Queen in the North. 

"I saw her," Gavroche says to Eponine, later that evening. They sit in the dark at the base of the tree, Eponine is more well-fed than Gavroche ever remembers her being. The haunted look in her eyes remains. "I saw Cosette."

Eponine picks splinters of wood from her worn black cloak and doesn't look at him. 

~ ~ ~

It has been a month, a week, and no time at all when Gavroche sees the Wall.

The weirwood trees Beyond the Wall are numerous, he feels more free than he has in days - weeks - months. He sheds off his skin and spreads out his roots in all directions, searching out any sign of life in the world. There must be something left, someone still breathing North of the Wall. He searches and looks and finds nothing. There is an empty expanse of snow and then he sees them. The army of the dead. Gavroche saw them at Hardhome but this is not the same. They are everywhere. They are close. 

The forest is the last thing left before the wall.

He looks for some sort of end to their number, a place where the dead are no longer marching, turns his gaze and freezes in place.

There are figures on horse back. The horses are dead. 

Dread starts to creep into Gavroche’s stomach. The figures, they’re not alive. 

The one at the front turns sharply and  _sees him_. 

Gavroche startles back into consciousness, crying out, and Eponine is there. Her hands are on his shoulders, she is pulling him close. The roots of the weirwood tree hold close for a moment, grasping at him, pulling him back down, and then Eponine jerks him forwards and he collapses forwards into her arms. 

“What is it? Gav, what did you see?”

He buries his face in her chest, squeezing his eyes shut, but all he can see is hate. "They're coming."

~ ~ ~

The visions start to come quickly, after that.

Valjean sits in the godswood at Winterfell, the weight of the world on his shoulders as he looks down into the clear pool of water. 

A young boy with ice-blue eyes crosses a river, holding the hand of a dark-haired woman. 

A lion stretches its wings and takes flight. 

Lanterns are lit in the godswood as a dark-haired man turns, and standing at the heart tree is a blond man with his sword drawn. 

~ ~ ~

There are too many visions. Gavroche sees everything all at once. He learns to sift through the rings of time, searching for the things he wants to see, but how can he know what to see when he doesn't know what has - or will - happen? He sees kings rise and fall, hears too many people cry and watches far more of them die. He skips through time like he used to skip through the briar maze, only where he was always able to avoid the thorns when he was little, now every vision nicks him, leaving an injury that will never heal. 

He is changing, he is not the same. 

He feels as if he has seen the worst of everything, seen into the hearts of men and realised just why the Night's King is coming. There cannot possibly be anything worse to come, not when so much has already happened in time. The last of the first men. The eradication of the children of the forest. Surely there can be no more sorrow, nothing worse? 

But the visions are not done with him yet. 

Grantaire is alone at Castle Black. 

Enjolras rides for Winterfell. 

The night is dark and full of terrors. 

"No,” whispers Gavroche, stepping forwards, but he can’t move, can’t escape, the roots of the tree hold him close even as another man steps forwards to plunge their knife into Grantaire’s chest. Again and again and again.

He watches Grantaire die, watches him betrayed, sees the terrified look in his eyes.

He sees him get up to see what the disturbance is, sees his expression when he reads the sign which says traitor. He watches as the men creep up behind him out of the dark, their cloaks as black as shadows, their malicious intent as sharp as blades. There is nothing Gavroche can do to stop them, nothing that Grantaire can do to escape his fate. 

~ ~ ~

“Time is up,” Courfeyrac says. There is a dawning horror crawling its way into Combeferre's eyes, spidering out across his features to pull them tight, darkness shadowing his features. “My sister died because of your father,” this Courfeyrac directs at Enjolras, who meets his gaze steadily, because he does not back down from ugly truths, “And I did nothing out of deference to you, but he is dead and you are disowned and the world is ending anyway.” He looks back to Combeferre. “I will go with him.”

“No..” Gavroche is only young but he can see that Combeferre can’t  _think_ , he can’t breathe. 

White noise like falling snow in his mind. 

Courfeyrac in Dorne in his shining armour, the spear in his hands a deadly weapon. 

His laughter, lighting up every room at the Wall. 

Warm brown eyes, looking at Combeferre when no one else does.

A kiss on a hill under stars. 

Is this how Enjolras felt, when Grantaire rode North?

Gavroche looks through the eyes of the heart tree and wonders where he is, when this is. The three men are stood in a godswood, but there are so many and Gavroche has seen so much that things are starting to blur. Where are Courfeyrac and Enjolras going? Why does Combeferre want them to stay? He cannot keep track any longer and every time he sinks into the tree he goes back to the Wall and he sees Grantaire and the knives and death, so much death, always death. 

"Stop," whispers Gavroche, "Please."

~ ~ ~

“A man must know how to look before he can hope to see,” says Lord Brynden.

~ ~ ~

A wildling camp on the edge of a cluster of weirwood trees. 

Enjolras wears no armour, just the heavy furs of the North, and yet the wildlings who are part of Joly’s camp still watch him warily with hunger in their eyes. He wears no house crest, not that of his birth family or that of the one he married into; all he has is the lion’s crest on his sword, which serves as a reminder of where he came from.  Bousset leads him through the camp, wearing the same furs he’d worn far in the North, but somewhere along the way he’s gained a shield and a helmet, from some noble family they have raided for supplies, no doubt. 

Bossuet takes him past the small tents and ramshackle lodgings they have created. There is nothing permanent here, nothing which cannot be dissembled in seconds to aid a swift retreat. There is a small area in the centre of the encampment where a fire burns over a pit. Joly sits just to one side of it, turning a hare to ensure it is cooked thoroughly. Musichetta is sharpening a sword too fine to be anything she brought from the North with her. 

When they approach, Joly looks first to the side of Enjolras, to empty space, then at him. His eyes meet Enjolras’s, and he  _knows_. 

“Oh, Enjolras.”

Gavroche sees Enjolras's crack.

“How?”

Enjolras sits down abruptly, on a log that has been cut from one of the trees. 

“The other men of the Night’s Watch,” says Enjolras. “I do not know how or why.” (Gavroche knows, he has seen, over and over and over again.)

Musichetta gets up and walks a few steps away, when she returns, it is holding a tankard that has obviously been stolen from a nearby inn. She hands it to Enjolras without word, and the ale inside was obviously stolen too. Nevertheless, Enjolras smiles and takes it. 

He sits in silence for a little while, listening to the crackling of the fire and Joly, as he tells him of the first time he met Grantaire, a crow who hadn’t killed a wildling found dying in a cave in the Frostfangs, who had took refuge from a storm with him and nursed him back to health. A crow who hadn’t seemed to hate wildlings, who seemed to hate himself more than he hated anyone else, who had been far more noble than anyone knew. 

Eventually, when the ale is gone and the hare along with it, Joly says, “So. What do you want?”

“The Wall is going to fall," says Enjolras. "It must. There is no… The Night’s Watch is fractured. When it does fall we need to be united, and we need all the men - and women - we can get.”

Musichetta snorts. “Most men and women have gone South, to warm beds and sunlight.”

Bossuet rolls his eyes. “Like better weather will make life any less harsh.”

“I am going to King’s Landing.”

“Gods," says Joly, a Maester Gavroche has seen in Beyond the Wall, "Why would you do that to yourself?”

“We need an army.”

“Ah,” says Musichetta. “The reason you came to us.”

“We’re not much of an army,” Bossuet says, glancing around jovially at the little encampment. 

“You were, once.” Enjolras saw them, before they attacked the Wall and then watched later, as Grantaire let them past the wall. “Can you be again?”

“You want us to reach out to the others, to bring everyone back together.” Joly frowns. “We are not Mance. You killed our king. We will not fight for another.”

“I don’t want you to fight for me. I am not a king either.”

Musichetta snorts again. “Word has it ‘round here that you’re married to the queen.”

“Doesn’t make me a king.” It made him a prince, if anything, but Enjolras hasn’t bothered to take any title. “I want them to fight for themselves, for the lives of men. If the army of the dead gets past the Wall, if they come here, they won’t stop until everyone has joined them. Your brothers and sisters might be warm and think themselves safe now, but what happens then?”

There is silence after he speaks. He doesn’t need to tell Joly, Bossuet or Musichetta of the horrors of the White Walkers and their armies. They have seen them. Gavroche has seen them. 

He thinks of Enjolras, the first time he came to the Wall, the proud lord who had been brought so low. He had walked into Castle Black as if he owned it, as if it was his birth right. Gavroche remembers, too, the first time Grantaire saw him, returning from a journey North with fresh blood on his hands and his ice-blue eyes so wary and unwilling to be convinced. But he had been convinced, they all had. Enjolras speaks not of now but then, of _when_. He sees a better world, one where they are all equal, where kings don't play with the lives of men and kingdoms don't rise and fall on a whim. 

With him, Grantaire had been transformed anew, a bastard who had found purpose and turned from shadows into the light. The two of them had _been_ something, the start of something great, two sides of the same coin, the future of the seven kingdoms and beyond. 

Enjolras is still just as passionate, just as true, but he is broken and not quite whole.

Gavroche stretches his wings, time and distance are nothing to him, and  _pulls_. 

~ ~ ~

“Did they burn him?” Joly asks, his hand on Enjolras's arm. 

“I don’t know.” Enjolras’s voice cracks.

Joly steps forwards, and the hand on his arm turns into a hug. It takes the breath from Enjolras’s lungs, constricts his chest to the point where it hurts. Gavroche sees Enjolras hesitate for only a second before dropping his head to rest on Joly’s shoulder (which looks ridiculous, he is almost a foot taller than Joly is) and his whole body shakes with one stuttering, gasped out breath. 

It is the warmth of contact Enjolras has not had since Grantaire died, a thing he did not realise he was craving. His grief breaks and then reforms anew.

When he lifts his head, Joly’s eyes are soft at the edges. He smiles gently. 

“We go on,” he says. 

“We go on,” Enjolras echoes.

~ ~ ~

Over and over and over again Gavroche watches as Grantaire is betrayed by his own men, as he makes the choice to do what is right and let the wildlings go south through the Wall and loses his life for it. 

“ _No_ ,” Gavroche says again, louder this time. He feels his voice travel through the wind, watches it travel across distance and time, through heart trees and into the hearts of men.

 _No_ , says Enjolras, alone in the godswood in the home of his once-enemy, his head turning as he hears a voice on the wind, as a leaf as red as blood falls from the heart tree into a pond as still and clear as glass.

 _No_ , says Joly, holding onto Enjolras on the edge of a small encampment, one hand gripping a link on his Maester’s chain so tightly the knuckles turn white, even as he tries to offer comfort. 

 _No_ , say Bahorel and Feuilly, on their knees in the snow at Castle Black, their hands slippery with Grantaire’s blood and lost life, shadows looming in the dark behind them

 _No_ , says Floreal, who hears the voice in the crackling fire, the flames burning black as she stretches her hands out over a body on a wooden table.

_Not yet._

~ ~ ~

There is a pause, a breath taken and never exhaled.

In the space between heartbeats everything is silent and still.

~ ~ ~

Somewhere in a locked room in Castle Black two ice-blue eyes open.

Grantaire takes in a breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had this in mind for a long time, and written several different versions of it. At one point, this was split into three different chapters, but I felt they worked better all pulled together into one. 
> 
> I'm posting this before I'm totally happy with it, and will probably look at it anew tomorrow with fresh eyes and wince, but such are the joys of fanfiction!


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